


The Redemption of Peter Wentz

by Summerlin



Series: Redemption Arc [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More "Touch Me" (Video), Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Dandies, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerlin/pseuds/Summerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete couldn't stand it. He couldn't live like this. He needed Brendon, and he'd get him back by any means necessary.</p><p>(originally posted to mibba in 2010, finally moved to a better platform)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nights like this are still, silent, waiting. Faint sirens rang out, chasing a target on the streets of downtown under the blanket of fog that was rolling through the districts, scraping the spires of buildings as it settled above the blanket of snow that fell throughout the day.

A scream tears through the industrial yards. Muffled but persistent, it’s guttural and primal, desperate to escape torture but to no avail. The thick walls of a dilapidated warehouse almost succeed in blocking it out, but it continues to intermittent crashes. Flood lights cast orange shades over the snow and gravel. The lone warehouse, shadowed by a condemned mill, hints at signs of life; shadows pacing under the doors, dimly lit from behind.

Inside, the scene was chaos. Papers, dishes, glass—all shattered and furniture torn and shredded with cotton innards. A wooden workbench is split in two, tape recorders, a laptop, and syringes crushed and scattered beside a lamp flickering on its side. The path of destruction leaves a trail down a hallway with dents and holes dotting the walls, and lines of fingernail marks dragging to a single door at the end. A vault door, stained with blood around its edges, rattles from the soul locked behind it: the source of the screams. It calls out to anyone listening, if there was even anyone around to hear it, though the only one, buried in mountains of files and books, scribbling furiously into a journal under a harsh desk lamp and fervently resisting the urge to help.

Behind that door with bolts bigger than eyes, the animal cried and begged, raking bloodied fingernails down the scratched surface. His shirt was ripped to shreds and stained with blood, his leather jacket balled up in the corner. Pete’s hair was pulled from every direction, matted from a cold sweat, black eyes darting around, alert.

“Please, Patrick! Let me out!”, he pleaded.

Silence.

His forehead met with the cold surface, drawing out a growl and letting it grow into a snarl, throwing himself against the door in a fit of rage. The bout lasts another half-hour to deaf ears, ending in the animal sliding down the surface to the floor, clenching the fabric of his jeans in a vice. The fog in his mind begins to clear, and reality sets in. The gravity of what he’s done, how his friend will never look at him the same way again.

Pete knows that after his episode (a blur of movement, vice grip, the snarls, the too-sharp teeth), he deserves solitary confinement. Starting a rhythm and swaying, he starts his mantra, eyes glassed over.  
You won’t kill. You won’t kill. You won’t kill.  
The blood lust raged on, burning in his throat for hours, scraping against his veins.

Pete knew he was slipping and losing himself to the thirst. Every day, every hour became more difficult to maintain self-restraint. What worried Pete most, above anything, was that every evening when he awoke, there was a period when he forgot everything: his childhood, family, friends, morals, everything but the pervading thirst. What terrified him was the fact that each time he rose from that makeshift coffin in the floor, these episodes would last longer and longer. Not only was he losing to the thirst, but also himself, to what he was.

His prison at the end of the hall was stripped bare of personality; its bare walls, bed, and dresser were cold and lifeless, void of color and life aside from the restraints bolted into the wall. He realizes how lenient Patrick had been to him, following his actions in the common room: when he’d completely lost it, throwing himself at Joe, and driven by his thirst before biting into his throat. The scene replays in his head, over and over. Through the mantra, he still sees flashes of it; dragging Joe across the floor, drinking to kill, anticipating satisfaction.

The monster is tightening its grip on him.

He doesn’t move when the bolts on the doors start to release, when the handle clicks and the door nudges against his dead weight. It persists, shoving him aside as Andy steps in.  
"You better be alive.", he teases.

He growls in response, “Barely.”

Andy hums decisively, kneeling before him, inquisitive eyes are peering behind thick lenses, and Pete averts his eyes, not helping to notice Andy’s probing stares. He runs a hand through his combed hair, shaking his head. His tone is soft, chastising.

“Why haven’t you been feeding? You know what happens…you know what happens, man.” Pete shook his head, slowly and silently. Andy sighed. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. Feeding is inevitable. You need to drink it so that shit like tonight won't happen again."

"I didn't mean to. I didn't want to kill him." Pete's voice shook with regret.

"You very nearly did." There was a brief window of quiet between them as Andy put his hands gingerly onto Pete's folded forearms.

He flinched at the contact, and recoiled further into the door. He wanted to ignore the inviting pulse, the beckoning scent of Andy that was well within reach. Pete ran his tongue over his teeth as his breath quickened. Sensing this, Andy backed off but stood his ground, letting go of him.

"Why won't you take it, Pete?"

"It numbs me, only for a while. It does nothing. I...I need something more. It eats away at me every second." His voice was husky and coarse as he spoke. "But...I don't want to kill. I can't."

"You can stay with your decision, but I can't stand seeing you like this." Andy spoke softy, getting to his feet. He pulled Pete up with him, heading out into the hall with Pete's arm slung over his shoulder. "I'll go to the hospital in the morning and come back with some O positives for you."

"No, Andy, I can't--"

Andy braces a hand to his neck over the sensitive scars. "They're donations, Pete.", and he places a packet into his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete watches patiently as Patrick writes, cataloguing their interrogation together that ended only hours before. It’s methodical. Pete finds it soothing, the mundane task of logging questions, responses, and reactions. His arms are folded at the end of Patrick’s desk, hunched over the surface and observes.

Patrick stops, double checks, and curses under his breath. “Shit. I forgot one. Do you mind if I—“

He skipped a question. It’ll eat him alive if he doesn’t get to it. The open expression on Patrick’s face tells Pete that this isn’t as lethal as the others that made him scream for Patrick to stop. He trusts him with his life. “Sure.” he says. It shouldn’t be much.

Patrick nods and the light of the lamp casts dramatic and concentrated shadows on his face. He flips back a couple of pages in his blank journal to find the right line in the other. Pete sees the charms hanging around his neck in his exuberance, jingling together. He reaches to touch one in particular, careful to avoid the platinum ring amongst the others. Patrick does notice, eyeing Pete in a knowing manner that says this is somewhat related. Pete runs his fingers over a particular flattened disc of metal, admiring the carvings and veins of metalwork.

Supposed to ward off things like me. What a piece of shit.

“Okay, so going back to memory attachment, wh-what exactly do you feel when you think about Brendon?” Pete’s face pulls into a frown, brows knitting and he drops the charm to sit as far away from it as he can. He eyes the ring on the chain around Patrick’s neck. “Not about who he is now, but how you remember him. What do you feel at the very thought of him?”

Patrick is curious. He’s doing this for all of them, especially for Pete, just to understand himself. He doesn’t mean to antagonize him.

Pete licks his lips before clearing his throat. He closes his eyes, letting his last mental picture of him flood his mind. He’s young and naïve, bright and alive. Even with his lethal teeth, Brendon wouldn’t lay a hand on him, or the others. Pete’s jaw clenches. “If my heart were still beating, it would be pounding. My chest hurts. There’s this…” Patrick leans forward as Pete tries to continue, jotting notes in shorthand as he speaks. “I feel this nervous itch like a meth addict. It’s like when I want to feed, but I’m not hungry. I just want. It’s almost unbearable. My mind whites out if I think too long about it.”

Pete opens his eyes, and Patrick is fishing out the ring from his many pendants and charms. Pete backs off even further because he knows. He’s afraid of it. That ring could kill him, slowly, agonizingly slow.

“I know your attachment prevents you from even touching this. It isn’t your fault, Pete.” Patrick says. He digs through a drawer in his desk and produces a small manila envelope, enough to fit a couple of keys into. He places the platinum ring and chain into the envelope and folds the seal to tape it together, handing it to Pete. Brendon’s ring is heavy in his hands. He isn’t touching it directly, but it makes his stomach turn violently at the thought. “Keep this. Hide it away, save it for another day, whatever you want.”

“Is this some sort of therapy?” Pete growls.

Patrick smirks, smoothing his hand over the new page in his journal and continuing his notes. “No, but you need it. He left it to you, and maybe someday you’ll appreciate it, if he ever wants it back. Just to, you know, have something to keep to yourself.”

\--

As Pete perched on the rain gutter of the roof, he felt a sting of penance. Screams echoed up the faces of buildings as he watched the scene before him. He'd naturally care less if it was some looter or rapist, of course, it happens as often as rabbits breed. But this wasn't some urban-Chicago mugging. It was a feeding frenzy. If they were Punks, he'd be happy to break up the scene. But these were a different beast. These were quick, efficient Dandies.

How they fascinated him. How silently they would swarm, and the speed and intensity of their reactions. He'd starved himself, it didn't make things any easier, and he longed for the same satisfaction they took for themselves. A part of Pete wanted to stop them from ravaging the drunk group of frat brothers, but he couldn't peel his eyes away; the darker side of Pete, however much he suppresses and exaggerates, wants-- knows he should join them. It's a longing he wishes he could never express. He feels that he belongs with them, among them, yet their ways go against every sliver of humanity he has left.

The moment ran in slow motion. He processed every movement and sound meticulously. It was in the close examination running through his head like a play-by-play that he felt himself slipping ever deeper into the abyss.

He had lost track of faces in the commotion between his own thoughts, and he refocused to meet eyes with Brendon's, staring up at him from the bodies they'd thrown aside. He stared at Pete with amused fascination and wanting, almost daring him to come down from the roof. Adrenaline shot through Pete when the situation registered. He thought he had the perfect vantage point, had it all mapped out... But Brendon knew exactly where he was. He lifted an arm, beckoning Pete to come down with his finger.

He turned away, expecting a route of escape now that his cover was blown. He knew several getaways, and he was now certain that this whole idea was fucking suicide, endangering his sanity and what family he had left. He couldn't just throw his friends into death's lap like this, but he needed to. Morals aside, stretched and broken past their breaking point, he concluded that there was simply nothing else left to lose. Facing back to the alleyway, a shadow caught his attention in his peripheral, and he had just enough time to identify it as Brendon’s lapdog, Michael Carden. A dark scowl crossed his poreless face. With a flash of his lethal teeth, he smacked Pete off of the roof before he had time to react.

The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him, causing Pete to gasp as he freefalled from the five story drop. His mind was fogged and he hit the ground with a crack, smashing the asphalt beneath him in a small crater of debris. Pete groaned loudly, holding his side where Carden had struck him. He failed to notice the pack of Dandies closing ranks around him, cutting off any room for escape. He stood up slowly, calculating as pain raced through his nerves like a brush fire. Yet, he focused his eyes on the one person he'd counted on finding here.

Pete stood his ground as Brendon circled him like a vulture, slowly licking the excess from the corners of his lips. Brendon's brown eyes shone like orbs, flashing in the dark as the shadows traveled across his smirking face. The air was electric, other Dandies waiting with anticipation, though shockingly, all of them ignored the pool of blood reaching their shoes from their victims.

Pete's eyes traveled with Brendon as he circled, trying anything to distract himself from the sweet scent of fresh blood. Brendon removed his Derby hat now, running the rim between his fingers, grinning at the fact that he'd finally gotten Pete into such a corner, simply by chance.

"Tell me, Pete...you were turned, what...two years ago, is that right?" he asked curiously, setting a formal mood to his taunting.

Pete growled, resonating in his dry throat. "You should know. You watched it happen."

"Yes, I remember." He laughed, prompting the others to do the same despite their ignorance of the memory. "Your threshold of pain is not as large as rumors made it out to be. Oh well, look where you are now. Pain seems to have done you some justice." Pete's fists clenched in restraint. "Yet you're so desperate as to seek us out on your own, without your precious club of hunters to hold you back. I'm surprised that you've held on this long." Brendon's pacing halted as he examined Pete, sizing him up. "I'm here now, mind as well say what you wanted to while you've got the chance, and not sit here with that pitiful look on your face." Pete had Brendon's full attention, yet he couldn't form a sentence out of shame. "Oh, come now, Pete," Brendon moaned, stepping forward and circling him at less than arm's length. "We may have eternity, but you are definitely wasting my time."

Aromas hung in the air. The transparent mist traveled as a breeze picked it up, sending it down the boulevard. Pete shut his eyes tight and took in a merciful breath, shuddering. Brendon snickered, running his nose up Pete's shoulder, to his hair in one lingering, taunting sweep. He exhaled heavily.

"Carden, go fetch something." he ordered. "Oh, Peter," he moaned, "I smell your hunger. I pity you, going on this long without the one thing you really crave most."

Pete was slowly losing himself as the seconds ticked on, as the fantasies swam and his veins burned fire. He could see himself in Brendon's glassy eyes, dilated and calculating like his own. He winced at the human scents entering his consciousness. Oh, how badly Pete wanted to ravage them.

"Tell me, Pete, how did you drag yourself down to this level?" Brendon inquired.

Sirens blared far beyond them.

"Choice. I am not a soulless parasite like you." His voice was now a strained whisper, more animalistic than ever.

Brendon inched closer, breath dancing on Pete's cheek in a venomous tone, and a second, colder voice backing his own. It was vicious, definitely familiar, yet not his own that held the warmth Pete remembered. "Let me tell you something, Peter Wentz. I've been around far longer than you and your ancestors in the ground, and do not think for one minute that I am soulless. I accept what I am. Brendon has accepted the same, so it appears that you are really the only parasite, a dying one at that, living on a delusion that you still belong to a far weaker and flawed species. And for that, you're beneath me. You are the one who is soulless by not living to your potential. I should've left you to die, rather the pathetic, naïve newborn that you were."

Pete had fallen pathetically to his knees under Brendon's strong influence. "Then what really is the difference between us, Brendon?"

Brendon knelt close to Pete's ear. Word after word, the other voice bled into nothing. "I don't wallow in my misery."

Pete wanted to hit him, throw him into a brick wall, anything to just take his anger out on Brendon, the Dandy. But he couldn't bring himself to. He knew he needed Brendon. That darker part of him longed for Brendon, the said aspect of him that was quickly consuming him. Pete tried to speak, opening his mouth but swallowing the words. Brendon leaned close in ample curiosity.

"I don't want to anymore...can't. So...tired..." Pete gasped. A darkness slowly crept into his consciousness, nearly swallowing him whole as much as he tried to fend it off.

In this brief moment, Pete had found what he was looking for: a meager weakness, a break in the defenses, a window between Brendon's personalities. He took advantage of this spontaneous vulnerability.  
"What are you saying, Pete?" he asked, with that familiar warmth in his voice.

"I'm so thirsty."

"Finally." Brendon grinned sympathetically. "Carden, bring that girl over here."


	3. Chapter 3

No one could’ve anticipated this...how it could get this bad.

William had him.  
Wrapped around his finger.  
Just as he had wanted for as long as he had laid eyes on him.

A vagrant wouldn't notice the difference. They wouldn't know the Pete with the soft, amber eyes...the Pete with the sharp wit...the Pete with the kind voice, that gave the firmest hugs, that gave you loyalty. What they saw was a wicked smile, firm grip, and a blur of motion. They saw those soulless pits of black in his eyes, and bloodied teeth.

And he was loving every minute of it.


	4. Chapter 4

Though Patrick knew that this point had left them no other option, he had hated Pete's idea from the start. The idea of just giving himself to the Dandies was without a doubt the most worst thing he had ever heard come out of Pete's mouth. It was common knowledge that William wanted Pete as badly as he craved blood, but despite William not being the target, he didn't believe that risking whatever ounce of humanity Pete had left was worth it.

Pete had given him the details. There was gravity on every detail as he warned Patrick of what was to come. Andy and Joe would know nothing of this; being if they did, they'd hold back and let slip the fact that this was all a long con against the Dandies, so fragile that a single look could topple the everything. This was why Patrick never went on hunts, even before Pete had left. Joe and Andy would always question Pete's whereabouts and all Patrick could do was shrug; Pete had sworn him to secrecy. It killed him that he knew where Pete was while millions of scenarios flew through his mind of what could be happening or what could possibly go wrong.

The whole point of this surmountable mountain of bullshit was the one thing Pete had been obsessing over for years. Patrick dismissed this as some form of memory attachment (newborns' tendency to recalling certain aspects from their previous life with obsession or revulsion). In this case, the obsession was Brendon. Pete had been there the night he was turned, and took him in shortly after. Back then, Pete held unconditional love for Brendon despite his new parasitic urges. Instead, his hatred channeled toward William Beckett, the sadistic fuck that turned their lives to shit. He doesn't recall how Brendon got the idea to go back to Beckett, pretty much thinking he was out of his fucking mind how he could return to the sadistic bastard that turned him into this monster, not the amiable, warm Brendon he befriended.

What tore him apart was the night Beckett finally moved in on Pete. Backing him into a corner, he turned him with Brendon by his side. Pete couldn't let that go. More than the urges to drain everyone in the warehouse, he wanted Brendon back. And this shook Patrick to his core, like with most things that Pete took too far.

He couldn't bear to look Andy in the eye when Joe burst through the door, carrying the bruised hunter on his back, beaten and bloodied with at least three visible bite wounds on his arms and wrist.  
"What happened to you? They were supposed to be Hoods!" Patrick gasped, trying his best to at least be surprised.

"We were in a crossfire, ran into the Dandies." Joe gasped, eyeing Andy cautiously as he winced under Patrick's gentle hands. "They came out of nowhere."

Andy cried out in agony as Patrick dabbed peroxide to the lacerations. "How did you get this way, man?" he asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Andy muttered.

"Try me. I know I've seen these marks before...."

"I didn't even see him. One minute I had Chislett on the ground, then the next thing I knew, Pete had thrown me like a wad of paper. I never thought he could move so fast until he started going feral on me like he had rabies."

Patrick ducked his head with a sigh. "I know."

"No, Patrick," Andy growled. "I don't think you do. He was in Dandy uniform. He had blood on his mouth. Pete had human blood all over him."

Patrick met Andy's gaze.  
"I know."


	5. Chapter 5

Throughout the city, the violence raged on, hunters practically powerless to stop it. Shrill screams bounced off of the walls downtown. At this point, the metro police and swat team sent in to control the riot, and the news teams sent to cover it, had been massacred within an hour. Their armored truck tipped on its side and desolate as the blood-soaked streets, the crimson rivers draining into the sewers.

There were no real witnesses to account for. This was what made the Dandies so merciless, that they left no survivors, witnesses, or prisoners to really live and tell. Beckett was there to orchestrate it all, keeping watch over his carnivorous flock. He had reason to keep a close eye. It had been almost seven months to the day that he'd taken Pete in; his prize. As with all things carefully managed, the hold he has on his two favorites is somehow beginning to falter. William simply tells himself I will break them again. 

In the financial district, amid the frantic sirens and emergency vehicles, Pete had dropped the limp body that had been slowly dying in his arms and made his way to Brendon, crouched at the ledge of the roof, running the brim of his hat along his fingertips, as he frequently did when his mind wouldn't settle. He hadn't bothered to feed tonight. Despite the nagging urge to satiate the the blood lust raging and ripping inside of him, he buried it. Brendon stared blankly to the horizon, and this perplexed Pete beyond measure.

"You're killing me, Urie." Pete huffed, wiping excess from the corners of his mouth and chin. "It's been three days. You've got to eat something."

Brendon didn't acknowledge the comment. "Pete," he asked reluctantly. "D-Do you ever.....sunlight, do you ever miss it?"

Pete answered with confidence, staring at Brendon with coal eyes. "No. I have nothing to miss." Brendon faced him now, narrowing his eyes cynically. Not even the rabid Pete was immune to Brendon's gaze.

"You're a liar."

Pete stared at his shoes against the backdrop of the empty street below. He sighed, "And what if I am? Shit like that shouldn't cross my mind anyway."

Brendon mused, "I want to remember what it feels like, to have the kind of warmth the couldn't kill me. It feels so pathetic, because whenever I try to remember, I'm,,,met with nothing...emptiness..." Pete listened patiently, looking back to the surrounding avenue.

"You should tell William about this. It isn't normal."

"No." Brendon replied firmly, breaking into a huff. "Since when have I ever been the least bit normal? Don't say anything, Pete, please. Imagine if I were to tell William myself. My limbs would be scattered over the lake." Pete scoffed, and Brendon took this opening to pounce. "...I hear you scream in your sleep. You shout my name as if you're fighting off demons."

"It shouldn't make any difference to you." Pete countered defensively. He was still resisting Brendon's gaze.

"I feel off. We...we're cut off from them. Even together with all of them, it's something stronger. We have a history."

"Yeah? How far?"

Brendon shook his head, disappointed that he couldn't produce a decent answer. "Have no idea. I try to remember, and all I get in return is the worst headache imaginable."

"Well, I can tell that something's up with you. It's like you've changed overnight. You even talk differently. But, Brendon, I know that blood will help you out..." Pete mused, coaxing indifferently.

"You're right." Brendon sighed, turning to look for the body, growling when he concluded that Pete had left nothing for him to finish.

Over the past few days, Brendon has come to realize that there was a massive, gaping hole in his life. As much as he tries, he can't conclude much from what he's pieced together in the dreams and subtle differences he's never noticed before...at least, he thinks he hasn't. Though he'd love to go out and get himself something to eat (he's always enjoyed the thrill of the chase), he's lost the will to do it. The subtleties become more apparent as the days pass, that he becomes more estranged from Beckett and more attuned to Pete's mannerisms and presence, that he has finally grasped the desire for sunlight again, or for the first time since he was turned from what he can deduce.

His insomnia worsens, watching the wall with curiously as Pete thrashes to the same nightmares he's been having for weeks. It was obvious now, even his demeanor when Beckett would give him instructions, then stare worriedly at his appearance. As anal-retentive as he is about his self-image, Brendon can't help that his hair is lifeless, lips chapped and cracked, and eyes dull and boring, sunken against his cheekbones. As Pete pointed out, he hadn't fed in days. He was a sickly mess and near prepared to do anything to make it right.

____________

Brendon awoke with a start, bolting upright in a frantic pant. His chest rose and fell in a familiar elevated rhythm.

shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit went his mind, a torrent of mixed words, faces...names.

He knew where he was, and finally, all coming back to him. More than his urge to kill, he sensed where Pete was, next door, screaming at the top of his lungs in the same, pathetic nightmare. Brendon knew he needed to get Pete out if there was any chance that he could follow.

Grabbing fistfuls of his hair, Brendon began to panic, clenching and baring his teeth to bite back a scream of frustration and trying to come up with a plan. He sat in bed amid the bunched sheets and looked anxiously about. The thick blackout curtains held a glow of daylight trying to peek from beneath the bottom edge, and left a long shaft of lethal light in the corner of the room. Thirst suddenly clenched inside of him, and he gripped his stomach, doubling over in agony. He wanted to shout through the pain, but refused for fear of waking the entire house.

"When was your last feeding, Brendon?" William asked politely from Brendon's prized leather chair in the back of the room. He sat poignantly with one leg crossed over the other, something dark and curious burning behind his eyes.

Brendon himself was taken aback by his sudden appearance, either not noticing that he'd been here the entire time watching while he slept or had slipped through the door unnoticed. He backed up slightly on the mattress but did not break eye contact with William. Pete cried out again, this time Brendon’s name echoed from the other side of the drywall and wallpaper.

"F-Four or five days, I suppose."

William calmly lifted himself from the chair and sauntered to the footboard. Pete's screaming slowly grew more desperate. "Brendon, you know that I need you. That everything I've built depends on you. Please tell me that I still have your loyalty."

"Of course, William." Brendon muttered, seeming to avert his stare to Beckett's hands, examining the dried blood under his razor fingernails.

"Funny," William stated, biting the corner of his lip. "Usually when you refuse to feed, you become weak. You're not weak, are you?"

"William, I wasn't--" Brendon began to tap into his defensive instincts, arching his back and staring William down.

"You are remembering, Brendon, and we cannot have that. You are too valuable of an asset for me to just let go. You belong to me." he glared to Brendon in the growing darkness.

All Brendon could see was William's shoulders drop with a sigh before lunging at him with a rabid snarl.


	6. Chapter 6

Brendon backed the boy into the lobby desk with a malicious grin, running his tongue slowly over his bared teeth. His tailored suit hugged his sinuous form, and Brendon loved the ache of anticipation he got when cornering his prey, the calm before the storm. The hat was missing, somewhere with William, and not the first time he's ever gone out without it. Bangs hung over his empty eyes holding the boy firmly in a fixed stupor. Being particularly vicious tonight, blood stained various spots of his suit from his victims and the fight he picked with a lesser clique. He'd determined that this one was a meager college freshman, probably has a life, a girlfriend, family, but he could deal. Intimacy wasn't a new concept to him.

Leaning in close, he'd pinned the boy's arms to his sides, speaking into the shell of his ear with razored, eager teeth and too soft lips. They pulled back over his teeth rabidly, eager to get this over with.  
"Tell me, Bradley...that is your name, isn't?" The poor boy was too entranced to notice that under Brendon's intoxicating scent was the stale stench of human blood.

"Y-yeah." he stuttered.

"Did it ever occur to you..." Brendon cooed, biting his earlobe and kissing the hollow behind his ear. "...how boring that name is? Then again..." He licked a long stripe down his neck. "Bradley is just a fancy term for a broad clearing. Want to hear mine? Can you guess? I'll tell you: it's prince. Fitting, don't you think...Brad?" He bit mercilessly into his neck, tearing the flesh more with each jerking movement and lips creasing over the pierced skin as Brendon pulled the body into him. For a brief second, his body warmed as he fed, color momentarily returning to his skin, and eyes rolled back in the ecstasy of it all. Brendon broke away from the body only minutes later, dropping the it dismissively, not even bothering to dispose of it properly. Wiping his mouth, he scoffed. "It goes to show that I am and will forever be above you, yourself far, far below."

From the adjacent street, looking into the lobby, Andy Hurley was shivering with adrenaline, watching as Brendon Urie fed from another helpless victim. It sickened him to stand by and wait, but he knew too well, it had to be this way, how the natural order of things would play out. But in all seriousness, Brendon wasn't in his proper place. Andy hated to admit that he genuinely gave a shit and pitied Brendon, simply from the fact that he was a Dandie. Andy had known him personally once upon a time. He knows that the whole vampire business is meant to happen, but escalating to Beckett's right hand is as unnatural as he can take. He didn't understand how someone like Brendon could become a sadistic, insane, parasite when all he could ever talk about before was how much he loved the way he could still see his reflection in the broken television screen after having been turned.

Patrick finally confessing to both of them of what Pete had done, intentionally giving himself up to them to get Brendon back, had led them to this. Joe thought it likewise that the whole scenario was just about the stupidest thing Pete has ever done (other than giving in and feeding on that girl in public), but Andy thought it to be entirely selfless. With Pete, Andy was the only one to really worship the humanity he held onto, and for Pete to give that up to save someone that is officially labelled a lost cause goes beyond anything he calls truly honorable. Now that the whole plan has gone to shit, they were told to take advantage of the one option they had left. The Hail Mary.

"Are you sure this'll take him out, Joe?"

He shrugged, eyeing the rearview mirror to see Brendon Finally parting with Michael Carden, walking down the boulevard with a hi to of a swagger in his step. "He can't pass this off as nothing. If we can still smell Pete on this, he won't be able to resist. Just keep the hood up."

Andy nodded, pulling it up as instructed, making sure to keep his hair inside and tied back with the rubber band.

He thrust himself out of the driver's side door with a huff (as rehearsed), slamming it shut before pulling out a city map and spreading it on the roof. Andy knew enough of Pete's mannerisms to make this work, and any self-absorbed commotion would surely catch his eye. Sure enough, the footsteps closed in proximity and Brendon leaned against the trunk of the black Mustang.

"I don't believe I've ever seen you around here." he mused.

Andy remained silent.

"Looks as if you're lost..." Brendon put a gentle hand to his shoulders.

Still no reply.

"Let me help you. I don't bite. Promise."

"That's a crock of shit." Andy spat, still refusing to reveal himself. Brendon withdrew his hand with a growl, bringing it to his nose.

"Why do you smell like Him?" he snarled, baring his teeth.

Andy slowly faced him now with a scowl behind his glasses. As he looked on at Brendon sizing him up, memories burned bright in his mind to those moments when Brendon didn't want to kill him, how great a contrast his grinning face was to the contorted, feral state it is now. It burned itself into his brain, almost believing that he couldn't do this do him. He couldn't really abduct Brendon like this, to him, it was close to impossible.

"Hurley, that's a very foolish thing to do." Brendon snarled, backing him into the side of the car. It seemed that even the hair around his ears bristled as he growled lowly in his chest, flexing his fingers and inhaling the new scent on his hand again. "It was a good trick, but all it managed to do was kill you."

Andy was trying to keep himself from trembling. He never thought that he would die at Brendon's hands (he was entirely capable of doing it), and was powerless to do anything when he was being cornered alone without a weapon. All he could think of at the moment was Where the fuck is Joe?

With a blur of movement, a cry rang out: a mass toppling Brendon to the asphalt. Andy let out a long overdue breath, ragged and heavy as Joe wrestled Brendon's swiping arms. He hurried to his side, cautiously bracing Brendon's wrists. Joe's knees kept his shoulders immobile using all of his weight to keep the predator in check. Andy's face was pinched with concentration, using all of his strength to keep his muscles rigid. Brendon continued to fight back, struggling under their bodies and snapping his jaw as Joe fished a cloth out of a vile that appeared out of nowhere. The Hunters worked quickly and efficiently, quiet enough that few would really hear and notice, and discrete enough not to be seen tackling a nineteen-year-old-looking kid to the ground.

Joe pressed the cloth to Brendon's mouth, careful to avoid teeth, and held him down. Brendon didn't realize at first until he mistakenly inhaled, and soon, he began to choke and sputter against the holy water rag against his nose. Joe and Andy had never seen anything like this, immediately scoffing at Patrick's instructions on how to properly gag Brendon Urie, and they became astonished at how quickly he had stopped fighting and tried to keep conscious with the heavy fumes. Brendon's eyes rolled back slowly with his convulsions and he actually had to fight for breath.

Brendon began to panic. He never really had to breathe for the three and a half years he'd been turned, but now that his lungs and throat burned like a wildfire, he relished the thought of inhaling fresh air. His back arched, throat constricting, coughing, and slowly suffocating as Joe and Andy were lifting his dead weight into the back seat and shutting the door. In his delirium, he could vaguely make out the passing streetlights going by, increasing in speed.

The background noise consisted only of the growling engine and Joe relaying Patrick's plan of action.

"We need to starve him."


	7. Chapter 7

Pete awoke with hunger pains on a level he's never experienced. The first person to come to mind was Brendon, because he of all people would understand, but it was William waiting for him by the draped windows.

"Where is Brendon? I need...Brendon." Pete winced through the waves of agony, staggering out of bed toward the door.

"Brendon is gone."

Pete stopped dead in his tracks, glancing up to William's cool gaze. For a moment, Pete regarded this as mumbled nonsense until, "Hunters took him."

"T-that doesn't mean anything. He'll come back. We can get him back."

"Peter," William sighed softly. "I will do what I can, however, I can't imagine his situation getting any better."

The snarl in Pete's throat grew more guttural by the second. He wrenched his eyes shut as he dug his hands through his hair, fighting the urge to punch the door in as he paced. After a few moments, he went still, bringing his face to William's.

Beckett put a cold hand to the back of his neck supportively. Pete winced. "Then lie to me. Tell me that he'll come back."

"He'll come back."  
_____________________________

In the long run, Patrick hoped that the vault door would hold, that the chains once used to restrain Pete were doing well against Brendon's jerking and prying. Compared to Pete, Brendon was the faster of the two, swifter and more fluid-like with his movements. This meant unpredictable behavior when Patrick sits in to visit him and monitor his condition in Pete's old room.

Patrick has had a long-standing hope for Brendon, filed and locked away in the most guarded part of his mind that even Pete has failed to open. He sat still and silent in the opposite corner of the room, eyes closed as he listened to Brendon's fingers examine the restraints.

"Patrick." Brendon's voice was dark, with another colder, and definitely more malicious one behind it, dancing in his throat. "Patrick."

He answered by opening his eyes slowly, shifting on the blanket he'd brought with him on the concrete floor. Brendon's eyes flashed in the dark, reflecting the streetlight peering through the window.

"Patrick, exactly how long do you expect to keep me here?" Brendon asked. He was gaunt, his skin paler, close to translucent, dark circles around his eyes, and lips bleeding in certain spots where the thin film of skin split open. He watched from the light of the window, held down to the bed in padded shackles, inspecting Patrick curiously. The opaque color in his eyes hinted to Patrick that this whole ordeal was only the beginning of Brendon's inner struggle to regain control over himself.

Patrick knew for certain that though silly and childish, Brendon was not insane as rumors made him out to be. He knew the real Brendon, consoled him, sheltered him, and loved him. He and Andy knew that this wasn't real, and he was refusing to accept that Pete was now in the same dark pit that Brendon was gradually pulling himself out of.

"How long do you expect to keep me here, Patrick?" Brendon pestered again.

Patrick growled, finding his nerve and letting Brendon move out of focus. "Until you snap out of this and starve."

"Now Patrick, surely you must be joking. I'll die if I do not feed, and you do not want that. Stop these childish games and let me go."


	8. Chapter 8

Day twelve.

Brendon is in the same contorted posture on the bed, shirt ripped to shreds and scattered about in pieces as it had been for days now. He didn't have the strength to fight back anymore, and clarity began to flood his head. Behind his vacant stare, the glow intensified in his black eyes. Brendon's back arched against the hunger pains, and he cried out to anyone that would listen.


	9. Chapter 9

It's been three weeks, and Brendon was nearly comatose. Though the muscle spasms came and went, he looked genuinely dead. His eyes followed every movement around him. In the twenty-one days he's starved, he slowly came to.

Andy had been watching him, noting how is posture would begin to relax like a time lapse film. Mouth positioned in a silent scream, he sank back against the bed lazily now that his restraints had been removed. It was all up to Andy to bring him back. Patrick kept his distance, despite his urge to get the IV into Brendon's arm now (he was more than ready) because Andy knew better than anyone how biologically sound Urie was.

"Do you think we should move him?" Patrick asked, voice timid in the silence.

"Give him a minute. He's coming to." Andy replied, not breaking his gaze from Brendon's motionless body.

Andy could tell from this angle by the window that Brendon's fangs were longer and definitely more intimidating. His body begged for resource, ribs were visible now, and even Patrick knew it was a bad sign when he began breathing again, trying to suck up as much nourishment as he could.

"Fuck it. I'm getting the packets out now. I can't stand this." Patrick muttered. He fumbled out the door, going across the hall to the study to fetch the five pints of A positive packets and IV stand, promptly rolling it back through the door. "Help me get him in the chair."

Andy complied, knowing full well that Brendon was far too weak to make a move and try to bite him. His head fell back lazily as Andy hoisted him up, groaning slightly under his dead weight. The few steps to the fold-out were languorous as Andy dragged Brendon across the room. With what strength he had reserved, Brendon barely clutched to the fabric of Andy's shirt to keep himself upright, his legs trailing behind them. He lurched into the chair and nearly fell over until Patrick pushed his shoulders back up against the wall. Andy finished with the IV needle in seconds, taping it to the skin.

Patrick was a bit impatient and skeptical at this point, still not sure if Brendon's mind was sound and under control. It was all a matter of waiting.


	10. Chapter 10

"Bren..."

"Bren..."

His eyelids were being held open, though they never registered. Someone was shining a light and poking their dirty fingers around in his mouth.

"Brendon...man, wake the fuck up."

Slowly but surely, the more they coaxed him, the more he came to, and pupils came back into focus. Brendon groaned, head lolling around to regain his bearings. The muscles were stiff and joints ground together like bone on bone. He heard his name again, and once his sight returned, he could make out the dull shape of Trohman's nose. A smile followed at Brendon's recognition, the fact that he hadn't immediately lunged at him.

Joe smoothed the bangs up and away from Brendon's forehead, and he returned it with a smirk.  
"Hey, dickhead."

"Welcome back, freak."

The reconciliation was slow but steady. Joe crouched between Brendon's knees, fingers on the needle in his forearm. Brendon groaned and looked about. It was early afternoon, judging by the light glowing around the black shade over the window. Walls were bare in the room to his dislike, and he was in a corner, farthest from the door, on a metal fold-out chair.

"How do you feel?"

Brendon made eye contact again, and he could tell from the lines on Joe's face that he'd aged. "Shitty, but not the worst I've ever been."

"That's good. That's good... Well, you regained some muscle mass and you've been on packets all day. We've made sure you won't have to go out tonight. Feel full?" Joe asked, looking him over for any remaining maladies.

"Not set to rip you apart if that's what you mean." Brendon stared at Joe's fingers, easing the needle from his arm and pressing a cotton ball to it as the puncture closed. He examined himself, at the bits of cotton shirt all over the floor, and the holes in his pants. "God, what happened to me? Was I mauled by a bear?"

Joe looked back to Brendon's face, deadpanned and indecipherable.  
"Bren, what is the last thing you remember?"

His brow creased at the question. Try as he might, Brendon couldn't get past the dense mental block, as if everything was a black, dreamless sleep.  
"I don't. I don't even remember putting these shoes on."

Joe sighed and gave a shake of his head, barely noticeable to those that weren't paying any attention. This was the part where he truly felt pity for Brendon. He really didn't know how to deal with him for the past three years, but all of the nostalgia came crashing in on him now. Joe knew he wasn't pretending. He even called him Jew, when in front of anyone else Brendon would have a zero tolerance policy for that kind of shit. He was back and looking as naive as a Disney movie.

Brendon inspected this nearly microscopic film of dirtbloodgrime on his fingernails as Joe thought to himself.  
"Okay, well, you smell like death, so get cleaned up in the shower across--"

"I know where the shower is Joe, I'm not stupid." Brendon tried not to sound so biting, but he couldn't fight that hostile impulse, like it was embedded into his voice now.

Joe paused vigilantly. "Alright...here are your clothes, ones you might feel more comfortable in. They've been sitting in a box for a while, but I washed them this morning for you."

Brendon still didn't understand this joke Joe was playing on him, especially the part when he handed him a cardboard box labeled: BRENDON'S. KEEP! in bold, demanding, black handwriting.

He was shooed into the bathroom without a word, leaving him to the warm water and his thoughts. He couldn't recall the last good shower he'd had, and he was sure this topped them all. Brendon stood under the stream of water for what seemed like only moments, hand braced against the tiled wall, letting the lukewarm water pool and run through his hair as it massaged his back and scalp. All of the grime he felt earlier washed away, and the coppery odor that had been in his hair with bits of gravel and dirt faded away. Brendon turned up the temperature to the scalding maximum. He sighed inwardly to himself and stood full in the stream, getting a good mouthful of water and spitting it back out. Yeah, this one definitely beat all the others in the long run. He heard a beating at the door, no doubt to ensure his well-being.

With a towel around his waist, he shook his hair dry with a rag and pulled on the fresh pair of jeans. This was when he looked, really looked, at himself for the first time since he was turned. It wasn't full of delight as it was before, or fascination, but just examining himself. His eyes wandered over his arms at how taut and pale they were and with just a twitch he could knock through a wall, his squared shoulders, and his neck, the scar of that first, brutal bite a darker shade of pale than the rest of his body. Brendon lifted his upper lip to see his teeth, not as long as they were before, but still noticeable. It wasn't that he hated them (he accepted it early on, and actually found it quite cool to be a nocturnal predator), but that he now couldn't imagine himself without them. The grey, long- sleeved shirt he pulled on went just past his wrists and hugged his chest, as did the rest of his clothes. He sighed to himself, opening the door and shuffling down the hall barefoot. He didn't bother to be stealthy. He felt at home making as much noise as possible.

Now that he thought about it, that was the only thing that made him feel at home here in the warehouse. It was as if he had become estranged to everything, like it wasn't his anymore. Not like he ever left, right?

He chose a seat at the kitchen table when he arrived. Brendon was alone, self-conscious, and he folded his hands in his lap and looked about.

That lamp wasn't there before.  
When did the guys get a new microwave?  
Awesome, a TiVo in here now.

"Brendon!"

The voice was growing louder, drifting down the hall and thundering down the stairs. Brendon shifted and greeted Joe when he appeared, running his finger along the wall until he sat atop the table in front of Brendon. "Hope your shower was divine."

"It was." Brendon busied with the hem of his shirt, eyes cast down at the table.

Joe tried to make eye contact by putting himself into Brendon's wandering line of vision. He didn't like the job of debriefing. If it was any worse than he thought it was, his heart would break out of pity for the poor kid. "You're quiet."

"Should I not be?" Brendon asked, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

Joe laughed a bit. "No, no. You would just be a chatterbox most nights, and we just couldn't get you to shut your mouth." He looked under the table at Brendon's feet. "At least you still go barefoot. You'd usually just go out in flip-flops or these little black sneakers, but around here, you'd be barefoot no matter what. At least William hasn't changed that about you."

Brendon's brow furrowed. "Beckett hasn't done anything. And where's Pete? Did I miss him or something?"

Joe sighed and looked at his hands. He didn't want to tell him this way. He wished he could tell Brendon everything that has happened gradually instead of one big sucker punch of tragedy.

"You're not going to like this, but do you know where you've been the past three years?"


	11. Chapter 11

“Come to think of it, Pat, Brendon has never been off of donations. Why would you ever consider he’d be ready for Pete’s blend?” ,Andy inquired from the top of the stairs where Pete’s bathroom was…or rather, Brendon’s bathroom. Brendon…well, he’s been hunched over the sink, nearly breaking the faux-marble countertop in his needy death grip as he vomits torrents of blood.

Minutes prior, he’d been feeling a little…feral, something so alien to him that he’d kept it a secret for a good six hours before Andy and Joe inspected his blown pupils and raw voice. It was a mistake on Patrick’s part to even do it without thinking. He goes to automatic pilot at times like these, when he hears a word even remotely close to feral used to describe a state of hunger, going back to when Pete’s manner with his insatiable hunger would become incredibly hostile. He had to work quickly back then, whipping out the blender and throwing in otherwise toxic ingredients before Pete stormed down the stairs and draining them all dry. What Brendon had achieved in that department was blatantly state that all he wanted to do was throw Joe up against a wall and let him bleed out, like it was nothing and nothing more. He sat calm, collected, and calculating at the kitchen table, waiting for Patrick to give him a remedy for his mounting bloodlust. He downed the entire glass before making a dissatisfied face and growing paler, nearly translucent again. Joe would say that he had never seen Brendon move so fast as he flew up the stairs and into the bathroom with a slam of the door, but of course, this was only a sarcastic joke. Joe has seen him move just as fast, if not faster, and for other means…

“I-I don’t know. I wasn’t even thinking. God, so stupid…” Patrick admitted as he cleaned off the counters with a faded dish rag.

“Well, we know not to do that shit again.”

Brendon emerged from the stairs languidly, gripping his arm and the railing as he kept his eyes glued to the floor. He looks worse than before. His eyes are nothing but black voids, making him the definition of what Pete had never wanted to be, but that idea was abruptly shot to hell.  
“Sorry about that. Didn’t know—I uh…could you…could you give me something else?”

Patrick was thunderstruck. Clearly he still was not used to the old Brendon, let alone his new mannerisms, but he complied nonetheless.  
“Y-yeah, sure Brendon.”  
Patrick fished out three pint-filled packets of AB positive and gave them to Brendon’s trembling fingers. He muttered thanks with a weak smile, teeth and all, and trudged up the stairs. Brendon was barefoot again as usual, and his sallow feet made no sound against the metal staircase. Joe followed as he usually did to be sure Brendon was assimilating as easily as possible.

The past few weeks were hard on Brendon, mentally and physically. Andy had to fight the impulse to console him the day they explained the kind of person he had been for the past three years. Too unbearable to endure, he nearly broke down with sobs when they showed him video as proof, killing left and right. The thirst didn’t return until (astonishingly) a month after “coming back.” Patrick made a mental note of this, that Brendon had a higher tolerance for it than Pete ever did, upon reflection of the episode with the smoothie. Now Brendon would openly scoff at the idea of it as a smoothie, more like poison.

Brendon scrambled about the bedroom frantically when he heard Joe’s footsteps ascending the stairs to follow him.  
Shit. It’s everywhere. Need to clean this off. Shit.  
Joe entered with a soft knock on the doorframe. He tried not to laugh, really, he did, almost managing to fool Brendon for a second with feigned shock. Brendon was by the window farthest from the door, crimson rag in hand, and blood everywhere but his mouth. Joe could easily tell that after soaking up some from the rug, he had tried to get a bit of nourishment by feeding from what the rag absorbed. Hands, shirt, neck, pants, pants, floor; soaked with it. A torn (ripped to shreds) packet lay dead at his feet.

“I-I tried to keep control up the…and I needed it—didn’t think—shit. It’s everywhere…such a mess. Joe, I’ll…just—I need to clean this up.” Brendon tumbled over his own words helplessly. He was vulnerable and pallid again, curling in on himself and taking a few steps back sheepishly. He twisted his blood-soaked hands in anticipation of a scolding rant he was sure to get for this, definitely an absurd expectation from the guy in front of him.

Now Joe couldn’t help the grin that spread on his face. He couldn’t be pissed off at something like this. Brendon’s expression softened when Joe came to him, picking up the packets that were left unscathed and put them in Brendon’s hands. “Go clean yourself up and feed.” He was still giggling as he pushed him forward. “This has to be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Joe?” Brendon queried, turning back to the doorway. He played with the packets in his hands, wondering how to properly word this. He bit his lip, looking at Joe with dilated pupils (the obvious sign that he was growing rabid with thirst, but to Brendon, he could wait a bit longer, just a few moments longer). “I know how you guys have accepted that Pete is gone, but…I…can’t. I’ve—I’ve been thinking for a while and…I have an idea to get him back. I can get Pete back.” Joe went rigid. Slowly turning, he scrutinized Brendon’s expression in search that this must be some kind of cruel joke. Pete was a sensitive subject for all of them, but kidding around like that took things way too far.

Brendon wasn’t kidding.

“I’m sure you mean well, B, but don’t get your hopes up. We can’t risk losing you again, and Pete is too far gone. He isn’t Pete anymore.”

“Joe, you don’t understand what I’m saying. I. Can. Get. Him. Back. I know what’s wrong with him.” Joe perked up at this despite Brendon’s ridiculous appearance.

“And what exactly is that?” he inquired.

“I-it’s…” Brendon’s brows furrowed in frustration, trying to put this in the right context, because seriously, it wasn’t like he could show Joe exactly what happened to him or how he felt. “Hard to explain. I’ve been piecing things together. The reason I can’t remember—brief flashes of these times when—William…he-he does things…he fucks with your mind. Even you could see that I had no morals, like my whole perception of things was twisted around. I remember all of these bits and pieces where I’d snap out of it for like this brief second, and then Boom!” Brendon made a theatrical gesture, flailing his arms in an explosive manner. “Black…nothing.”

Joe didn’t want to force this out of him because he feels how hard this must be for Brendon to get out completely. He placed his hand on Brendon’s shoulder. Fabric of the shirt warm, the skin beneath ice.

“Maybe that is why I’m so different…” Brendon muttered to himself. “William thought for me, literally. I’ve realized from the things you’ve shown me of how I was before, that he had me immersed so deep that what he’s done has become permanent. Joe, these habits aren’t mine, they’re his. I’ve realized that the longer I stayed, the tighter his grip on me became. I remember Pete in those pockets of memory, how lost he must be. I-I can’t accept this like you can. This city…fuck—humanity doesn’t deserve Pete, but Pete doesn’t deserve that kind of life. He gave up his humanity for me. The least I can do is to pull him back.”

Brendon thought this must be the longest silence of his life. He could hear Joe’s gears turning.

“Tell Andy and Patrick exactly what you’ve just told to me. If you’re so sure…” He pondered Brendon’s logic. He might recall where Pete is, might know how to snap him out of this. “…we can work this out.” Brendon grinned wildly, baring his lethal teeth. That there; that was what Joe missed the most, that infectious smile. “You know, Brendon, you didn’t have to come and ask us about this. You could’ve just gone out and done it without our knowledge-not like we could really stop you- but we—I appreciate that you did.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you. All of you have been through enough of this. I couldn’t do that to you again.”

Brendon laughed to himself, holding a bag to his mouth as he shut the bathroom door behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

Pete couldn’t properly remember the last time he felt this good, this alive. Sure, he’d ignore the reeking stench of death in the alleys the he’d pass every now and then. Brendon was getting to him.

Pete, you need to understand that this is meant to happen. There are a lot of things you cannot control.

Of course he didn’t want to listen. Pete’s first instinct, despite his short stature, was to fight for his life and any he came across. But…well, fuck, he’d listen to Brendon’s nonsense any day because it was beginning to make sense, like how he began to ignore Brendon’s inability to shut the fuck up for once and…actually listen. And how it was all coming together, how his words simply made life so much more bearable to swallow every night. Brendon was his blessing. He’d scream it from the rooftops if he could, if only he knew how to get up there so fast. I mean, come on…he was only human for crying out loud.

He’d vaguely remembered discussing after Brendon would get done swapping tactics and godknowswhat with the parish priest three blocks from the warehouse (and seriously, what the fuck was that about? Mormon to Catholic in five months flat, what is that shit?) that he would rendezvous with Pete by the late night diner where the two counties meet, precisely three blocks to meet halfway. It’s not like both of them could screw this up.

Pete thought highly of Brendon, more than the other three in his little group of naïve hunters. After discovering vampires, Brendon was adamant that none of them really knew what they were getting into, a species far more dangerous than humans were to the rest of the food chain. Pete saw right through his idiotic antics, the sentences that made absolutely no sense, straight to the ones that only his fucked up mind could comprehend. What Pete couldn’t wrap his head around was Brendon’s seemingly cryptic warnings and pleas of watch yourselves and don’t do anything reckless. All eyes went to Pete at this statement like he was going to commit murder on the spot.

(Actually, all of that changed, literally, when Pete first met the kid. It was like he lit up the fucking room just by breathing. Pete had quit with the nights passed out from near overdoses of Atavan and the self loathing with razors once Brendon walked through that door, shivering from the downpour and covered in bite marks. Now that he thought about it, other than Patrick, Brendon was really all he had to live for in this world, no offense to Andy and Joe, but none of them had the same effect.)

Fifteen minutes went by, wondering if Brendon was still fucking around the streets, greeting random strangers in the early hours of the morning. That was shot to hell anyway.

The shrill scream was unmistakable. Ringing out of the derelict facades of the industrial parks, Pete’s defensive instincts kicked in, and he would swear to you that the hairs on his neck bristled. His feet moved on their own, saying fuck you, brain, if you’re moving too slow, carrying him from each side of the street, searching the turn offs as he darted past them, drawing closer as the screams condensed to highly audible whimpers.

BrendonBrendonBrendonnonononononononofuckshitsostupid

The screams were drawing so close he could virtually hear the terrified pleas in that familiar, velvet voice he loved so much, now reduced to sobs.

BrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendonBrendon

“BRENDON!” he called. Pete’s voice broke with each syllable in desperation. He was so fucking ready for a fight. Fingers itched as they gripped the wood of the stake.

He turned the right corner. Finally, but –oh,god- not what he wanted to see, not in this lifetime. Pete could feel that proverbial prickle grabbing at his eyes. Knees gave out, stake cluttered to the ground; naturally at a sight like this, one he definitely could not handle. God, so much blood.

“Brendon…god…w-what” Pete couldn’t even form a cohesive sentence with this crumpled mess before him. He didn’t know what to do, where to touch (if he could even do that without causing more damage). Blood was everywhere that soaked into Pete’s jeans as he hovered. He didn’t know a body could hold so much. The gashes, yeah, he could handle those, no problem. It was the sight of Brendon’s neck pouring out blood like the fucking Mississippi River and hyperventilating. Brendon’s hands grabbed for nothing as his eyes searched around, desperately for someone to find him, let alone realize what the fuck was going on.

“Who did this? Brendon, who?” 

Pete, if anything, Beckett would be the one to really have a personal vendetta against you. Any idiot could see that.

“No no no no no no! Brendon! Did he do anything to you?” Pete searched his body for any other maladies, telltale signs of what he feared the most. He couldn’t lose Brendon like this. Shit, he…god, he wouldn’t know what to do. All he could comprehend at the moment, the only instinct registering aside from Brendon, tell me what I can do is to scream, hiss Back the fuck off!and Don’t touch him! But yeah, that was entirely fruitless when, hovering close enough to Brendon’s heaving mouth, the retched stench of blood emanated from Brendon’s chapped lips.

Brendon cried out again, cringing in on himself, and Pete knew, he just fucking knew, this was the last time he would ever see Brendon’s precious tears, the last time he’d ever need to use his lungs as a primary life support. “P-Pete,” he whimpered, eyes rolling slut, clutching Pete’s wrist firm enough to leave several bruises. “It hurts. So much. Please, Pete! It burns.” Brendon cried out again; his back popped so audibly that Pete cringed at the sickening sound.

Like a time lapse film, gradually, Brendon’s skin lost its tanned luster he brought with him to Chicago, gashes began to stitch themselves back together. This was the sure sign that Pete knew all hope was lost. He couldn’t do anything. Fuck, he. couldn’t. do. anything. And yet, Brendon was still shrieking in agony.

“Shhhh…Brendon, I’m here. I’ll make it go away. I’ll make it all go away.” Pete whispered now, as if anything he would ever say to Brendon again would be their secret, like the world didn’t deserve them anymore, not after what fate has put them through. He pushed the hair from Brendon’s forehead, trying to no avail to stop the poor boy’s convulsions.

William hated this, more than ever, watching silently as Pete writhed and shouted from the pillows. Standing in the doorway, between the door itself and the frame, he growled at the thought that he couldn’t control Pete, like he was slipping away. The dreams were a dead giveaway. The anger in him had been rising these past couple weeks since Brendon had been gone. William was losing control. His solution was the same as any other when matters like this presented themselves.

I will fix this.


	13. Chapter 13

My screams couldn’t be heard. No one will find me. Obviously, this is not the way I wanted to go. I have so much unfinished business. I can't just leave Pete alone like--

Pain. There you go. There it is. How have you been, old friend? Haven’t felt you in a while.

My knees buckled beneath me, yet I was still being supported by the firm arms that had snaked their way around my hips to end in a spread palm holding my shoulder blade. They’d jerk me forward every now and then making the pain surge forward to produce another scream, nearing a moan. I choked on my words. How could you form any, when the life is being taken through your throat? Tears flowed freely from my eyes, clearing the dirt in shimmering tracks down my face, gushing like fucking Niagara Falls; I didn’t know what to do with my hands, really. They clawed at his shoulders, his neck, anything I could manage to get a grip on, only to lose it again and have my hands clench, no doubt having my knuckles turn paler than what I was becoming. The dizziness followed.

Part of me laughed at the idea that this is exactly how I get at blood drives when they want just a pint more. I pray that I’ll pass out. Please, if there is a God, give me that release. Don’t let me suffer like this.

This parasite grunted low in his chest, rumbling against me, and I whimpered. I never thought that I’d even see so much of my own blood in my lifetime. I could feel the chill of it as it soaked through my shirt, my coat having been shredded in the struggle. This whole ordeal was going a lot slower than I would’ve wanted. A haze began creeping around my line of vision. Edges blurred, shapes fading in and out. This was a different drug, but in the long run, I’ll tell you that endorphins don’t do shit at a time like this. I’m losing feeling in my limbs. I—

There goes the lightning in my reaction to the teeth pressing harder, deeper into my jugular, that precious and sensitive artery. Eyes wide as saucers, I could vaguely feel my mouth drop open and I sank further into his hold, limp and helpless. The thunder followed in the shrillest scream I could muster with the blinding agony. And it was just that. Blinding. My vision finally gave out.

Oh, god. Please…NO. I’m blind.

The scent of me was everywhere, more inviting by the second when the pressure on my neck finally subsided. But…no. Nononononono, it can’t get any worse than this.

“Brendon,” his voice teasing in the shell of my ear, hot and iniquitous, nothing I wanted to be near. “listen, little one. Don’t fight any of this. It will be easier if you simply give up.”

I was choking again, but not on my words. “H-how can I fight back? You—you’ve m-made that imposs—ible.”

“That’s the spirit.” I shuddered violently at the statement. “Now, just one more favor from you.” Beckett had put his wrist to my mouth, dripping onto my lips, loose and worn. I couldn’t even muster strength to turn away. My eyes tried so hard to search him out, to push him away, anything but this. From how bad Pete had described, this is probably the last thing I want in this life. But in this sort of situation, how can you do anything when you can hardly move. You lose all ability---

Hold on. I’m moving. I need this. This helps. Whatever this is, whatever he is giving me is helping. My parched throat and limbs are begging for this.

Shit. I black out. Finally.

But no, what is this? The aching in my muscles, contracting in on themselves. William’s left me here, I can figure that much from the way my hair is soaking up the water of a puddle. I hope it’s water…  
Oh, god! It hurts! Fire everywhere, spine clenching.

Through the madness I hear my name. Who did this? What happened?

If I could form the words, Peter, I would tell you in a heartbeat.

I can’t breathe anymore. I’m heaving, suffocating, choking, sputtering. Why? Why me?

“P-Pete,” I whimpered, eyes rolling slut, clutching Pete’s wrist firm enough to no doubt leave several bruises. “It hurts. So much. Please, Pete! It burns.”

There goes my spine, snapping and sending shockwaves through my shoulders, arms, hips, just—fuck, everything hurts. So much pain. I cry out again. 

I gasp; clutching the sheets that I’d been gripping so hard my fingernails had ripped several holes in them. Blinking in the fading daylight, checked my surroundings before keeling over and collapsing back into the pillows. They still smelled like Pete, faintly so, and I couldn’t bear this any longer. I’m done with this, done with everything. I want Pete back. I can’t fucking sleep anymore (I can’t even think properly without him, shit) and this is becoming unbearable. I’m breaking in slow motion, and I’m done. This needs to end.

I will fix this.


	14. Chapter 14

Brendon was swift, darting over the fence with leaps and bounds, in a way, almost cat-like, shoulders arched with the movement of his limbs. He’d tossed his shoes after he’d passed the shore of the lake, sprinting the length of the gravel beaches barely leaving indentations behind. If he’d learned one thing from Beckett, it was absolute stealth. He knew well that when he wanted to, he could be completely silent and invisible, exactly what he was accomplishing in the high afternoon sun. Layer after layer of sun block was applied earlier, around noon, to prepare for this. He was pastier than before, but as invulnerable to the sun as he was when he was human.

If anyone were around at the moment (but seriously, though…no one could find the Dandy manor around here, or at least knew about it), they’d spot a pale, lithe body scaling the wall of the mock-Tudor mansion. Brendon felt invincible at the moment. He had no distractions whatsoever (drank from four packets, more than one human can hold) and was dead set on his target. His only infirmity was his sensitive eyes, bare and squinting in the afternoon sun. He dug his nails into the mortar between bricks as he climbed; reaching the window he wanted in no time at all.

Something he loved about the Dandies was their arrogance toward their own safety. They’d been on their high horse so long that there was no need for tight security. Brendon relished this. He would win any bet against saying that the window to Pete’s quarters was unlocked, like he-or anyone here for that matter including Beckett- would ever suspect that someone or something would dare break in to a hoard of ravenous vampires.

Crouched now on the ledge of the window, hands pressed flat against the glass, Brendon was calculating his next move faster than he could blink. It wasn’t hard to conceive, really. He’s sure he’s done this plenty of times before, judging by how quickly the idea came to him. His fingernail cut easily through the glass as if it were paper, barely making a screech. The hole was just big enough to get his hand through and unlatch the handle from the inside. This was too easy. Brendon was surprised how at even this hour, Pete had not woken up yet, ready to tear him to pieces or hug him to death.

He could feel the handle, just at the tip of his fingers, pressing down slowly enough not to make a sound, and the window opened graciously, as if inviting him in. Brendon slipped inside, inching past the curtains, making sure not to let any ounce of the early sunset in, lest he burn Pete in the process. No need to close the window if he needed to make a quick exit. He smirked to himself. I mean, c’mon, he half expected to get a fight here and there, run into Beckett or –

Pete is staring. Staring right at him...

The silence was stifling. Pete wasn’t doing anything. It was like…he was…waiting.

‘Pete…” Brendon sighed, letting go of a breath he did not remember taking. It was all he could say, really.

Pete looked threatening, yet entirely composed, as a Dandy should be, but this was more like a distraught or sickly sort of menacing; gaunt even. “You’re up early.” It finally dawned on him that Pete was up at this hour, looking like he—

“I couldn’t sleep.” Pete answered, like it was already something Brendon knew, like he knew why Brendon was here. Of course he knew; everyone knows his eccentricities, and Pete of all people would know better than anyone.

Pete though, taking in this uncomfortable moment and Brendon before him (in one of Pete’s shirts no less). Yeah, compared to Pete in his straightforward, half-buttoned shirt, Brendon looked a feral mess. “Came through the window, I see. Clever. But you…you’re that…Brendon…the one that left, right?”

Okay, what?

Brendon's brows knitted together with his face contorting in confusion. “Pete, what are you talking about? You know me.”

“I really don't. I don’t associate with traitors.” Pete’s hazel eyes were cold when they slowly shifted from probing to hostile.

Brendon was practically flailing now. “Pete, I don’t understand. How am I a traitor?”

Pete began backing him gradually into the wall, each step adding further tension into Brendon’s taut muscles. “William has told me all about you. Oh, yes. How you sold us out, spying for the Hunters and then disappearing, just like that.”

“Pete, listen! Don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Brendon Urie, your best friend!”

“Can’t say I’ve ever met you before, but that doesn’t matter.” He had Brendon up against the wall. Brendon, well…sure, at a time like this, you’d get defensive too. He growled low in his throat, echoing as he put both hands to Pete’s chest and shoving hard. Pete stumbled back a few feet, close to the bed with a hiss. His stature now did nothing to stop Brendon from glaring down at him.

Brendon couldn’t believe it. Beckett had wiped everything. Pete had started from scratch with all of this. In short, humanity was fucked.

“Doesn’t matter… Pete, Beckett has kept you here like he kept me! I was rescued, Pete. Please, I’m doing the same for you.” Brendon pleaded. His fingers flexed impulsively, ridges of his spine showing through his shirt.

“Like I need to be rescued.” Pete scoffed. He lunged for Brendon then, snarling viciously, baring his teeth and slamming Brendon into the wall again. This was now a struggle for the upper hand. Brendon was nearly buckling under the sheer force of Pete’s strength. At the same moment, he had to keep tabs on Pete’s fingers inching to his shoulders with fingernails bared. With all of the grunts and banging around from this struggle (knocking over several paintings and chairs) you’d think someone would notice. To Brendon, it was a fucking miracle for someone not to wake up. Brendon was heart-broken. Part of him wanted to dismiss this, to think that Pete was not worth the time if everything had come down to this. But…after all Pete has done for him (saving his life multiple times), how could he just give up?

Brendon wanted to cry at the sheer absurdity of it all, laugh and scorn. He was definitely holding back, just a sliver. Behind that splinter of hesitation, he could surely rip Pete to pieces like a Hallmark card. But he couldn’t do that, not to his Peter. There was only one other way to snap him out of this manipulation as quick as possible, and it killed him that it had come to this. This summed up all of his strength, shoving Pete back hard enough that he collapsed onto the large mattress. Not even a split second later, Brendon had vaulted across the room, pouncing on Pete before he could even recover from the blow. He straddled Pete’s waist, knees on either side of his hips, pinning his wrists above his head. Brendon looked down at Pete aguishly. He was all vampire now, no ounce of humanity that could be hinted at. Snapping jaws could do nothing to intimidate how desperate Brendon was. He took a good grip on Pete’s jaw and looking into his rabid eyes,  
“I’m so sorry, Peter.”

He thrust Pete’s chin upward and sank his teeth into the pale column of his throat, pressing hard enough that he could practically, if not actually, feel Pete’s agony, muffling his scream with the hand on his jaw. This was the last thing he had wanted to do, and it made it that much worse that he could feel the pain pulsing, pounding through Pete as he bit down, let alone taste the bitter corruption in Pete’s blood. He didn’t drink much, he wasn’t here for that and it was not necessary. His teeth pressed deeper, Pete shrieked louder against his hand. He was trying to break away from Brendon’s hold on his wrists, writhing under his weight.

A few staggering moments later, Brendon released him, in hopes that the one idea he prayed wouldn’t have to be carried out had worked. Pete heaved as he pulled away from his throat, wiping the dripping smears of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Brendon’s chocolate eyes pleaded that Pete would at least have no strength left to fight back.

Pete gasped, very audible. Brendon was astounded at how many times they were getting away with this much noise. Blinking several times, sputtering and coughing, his eyes met Brendon’s.  
“Get off of me.” Pete swatted him off with a mixed expression of disgust and anger. Pete’s pupils were now completely dilated from the blood loss, and he stared at Brendon when he managed to move his healing neck (the damage surprised even Brendon, never knowing he could do anything like that). “Brendon, what…” His eyes widened, darting about the room and back to him. “Brendon!”

Pete wrapped around Brendon’s shoulders faster than he could sprint, and this knocked the wind out of him, nearly falling backward under the force of it. “Oh, god, Brendon. Brendon, Brendon, Brendon…”

Pete? Sobbing? No, that could never happen.

“I don’t know…I lost control. I needed to get you out…You weren’t you—so merciless—“

“Pete,” Brendon stopped his rambles, gripping his shoulder, tracing soothing circles on Pete’s cheekbone with his thumb. “I know, that wasn’t me.” He gave a weak grin as reassurance, trying to alleviate Pete’s panicked state. “I’m here though. This is really me. I’m here…”

Pete regained his bearings rather quickly, craning his neck as the last gashes of the wound stitched itself together. Brendon did feel horrible about it, but at least Pete was aware now, a little too aware. Once he took in his surroundings and his bloodied attire, the growl that ripped through his chest ricocheted off of the walls, rising to a screech, and he ripped away from Brendon off of the bed, tearing for the door. Brendon was quick to react. He snatched Pete’s shoulders before he reached the doorknob, twisting him around and putting a hand to his mouth.

“Pete, don’t. You go after William, he and all of the other Dandies will wake up, and we both die.” he whispered, close to Pete’s face. Pete fought him off, swatting him away and burying his hands in his hair, muttering to himself.

“I can’t just leave it alone, Brendon. He took you from me. For that, he took three years of happiness, the only kind I can feel now. Do you know what that’s like? He should know what that kind of misery feels like!” Pete gestured wildly. But that rant, that one right there…well, shit, that summed up everything. Brendon put it all together.

“He also took you. I know, Pete, I really do. The things he made me do…they’re unforgivable. But you also don’t know what it’s like when you aren’t around. I’m not myself. I’m so…lost.” Pete looks like his dog had been hit by a freight train. “I know how livid you are—shit, Pete, I can feel it, but not here, not now. They’re coming, and if we don’t leave now…so help me god, Pete, I will make you go. You know I can.”

They were still for a long moment, scrutinizing until one of them was sure the other wasn’t full of shit. Pete was heaving, probably close to spitting fire with his forced breaths. Brendon was as calm as ever, the gentle water to Pete’s violent fire, pleading him with his eyes. The voices downstairs were very acute to their ears, growing louder with each second. Pete huffed, letting out an animalistic snarl before kicking a lamp off of the wall, shattering the glass and filament.  
“Alright, alright!” He shouted, as quietly as possible under Brendon’s intense stare. “Lead on.”


	15. Chapter 15

Pete ignored his cravings, with just having Brendon in the same room with him, it was a fucking miracle. He could focus on other things, like the sound of Patrick's laugh at the expense of Joe's biting jokes. Everything was easier to slip back into. Life was calmer, less chaotic and inebriated. He’d loosened up a bit knowing Brendon was near, in his right mind, and ready at a moments notice if one needed the other.

Pete was even beginning to come to terms with his vampirism. Sure, it’ll kill him when the day comes that he outlives his friends, but that is what Brendon is there for. He knows what it’s like. It isn’t that monotony of hating yourself every night when you rise up from the hole in the floor. It isn’t knowing you’re damned to walk the earth for eternity alone. It isn’t slipping into dark lapses and later finding blood all over your yourself. It isn’t sobbing silently at the longing of sunlight. It’s waking up every night to your best friend at the same moment, yawning like wild cats. It’s coaching through cravings of blood and throats until you forget you even do that to survive. It’s remembering to laugh when you can outsmart human beings at their own games of hide and seek. It’s having someone there who knows the burn and lust clawing at your mind, to know what it’s like to have your life and morals taken from you, the want to let go and be yourself, and having the ability to be yourself without having to be by yourself.

There are times, though. Times when Pete blacks out after starving himself or dwelling on the bloodlust for too long later to find Brendon pinning him down, when he’ll lose his temper over something as little as Patrick getting a paper cut, or Andy and Joe going out hunting and coming back at an early hour. That’s the hole that Brendon knows he must fill. Pete doesn’t know what to do with himself now. Brendon reminds Pete that they should keep to themselves, keep living their lives and keep each other in check, not go off and take out all of the pent up anger on slaughtering the Punks two streets over (despite Pete having a personal vendetta against them for forcing him to feed from that girl that one time he doesn’t exactly remember when).

They’ve also done research. It’s more of a condition, Patrick says, like epilepsy (Brendon thinks that’s a mediocre comparison). Pete barely gets the gist of the stuff he calls "scientific shit." That isn’t what nags at his brain before he goes to sleep. It’s not the ability to regenerate bones and limbs (accelerated cell mitosis, Patrick says), not the fact that they’re cold and pale (climate adaptability, Patrick says), disregard for the little detail that they crave and drink human blood (extreme nutritional value to compensate lack of hemoglobin and plasma, Patrick says), how Brendon can compel others to his will (enlarged frontal lobe, Patrick says), how he and Brendon can climb a fucking wall and sit on the ceiling (genetic mutation to skin patterns on fingertips and toes, Patrick says), and the reaction to sunlight (lack of vitamin D and melanin in skin cells, Patrick says). No, it’s that fucking bond he has with Brendon that he can’t seem to shake from his mind.

He swears it’s the creepiest and coolest thing ever. Joe and Andy have also noticed, and it seems that when they’re separated, their personalities fall apart. Brendon will withdraw and lapse into his demonic habits of devising plans to rip everyone’s throats out in a calculated fashion, and Pete will just go for it, losing his temper. When they’re together, it’s the perfect balance of Brendon’s calm and secure water to Pete’s passionate and unpredictable fire. Brendon doesn’t stutter, Pete uses polysyllabic phrases in conversation. They’re so tuned to each other’s wavelength that Brendon knows the precise moment when Pete will make a swipe for Andy’s throat, when Brendon will push himself too far to stave off from feeding, and when one of them is having a nightmare, knowing exactly what and who it is about.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise this late afternoon when Pete can’t sleep and Brendon has been downstairs all day in front of the television watching four entire seasons of M*A*S*H without moving so much as to blink. Pete is curled against Joe’s side, sitting upright against the wall in the space between Pete’s makeshift and Brendon’s bed (Pete felt incomplete without it, “Just used to it, I guess. Feels funky and vulnerable with just blankets around you.”) He hasn’t fed for two days, not a problem in the slightest. This has been a good week for him. He loves the way Joe feels. It’s like the radiating warmth coming from him gets him high, and Pete will never get tired of it. He clings to Joe’s arm and stares at the steel door, not wanting to remember that time he nearly killed Joe without thinking twice about it. He tries to fall asleep again. He knows he can, but something is keeping him awake, and it’s not Brendon…it’s…something else.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Joe asks quietly, tracing the faint veins in Pete’s wrists with his eyes. Pete gets this question every week from Joe, as if he’s hoping the more he presses the matter, he’ll get more than trying to decipher Pete and Brendon’s mental conversations.

Pete shifts, tucking his toes into the folds of his sweatpants. “I don’t know what to talk about. Do you want the feeding part or the blacking out part?” He runs his tongue over his teeth out of habit.

“From what you remember.”

“I don’t remember a thing, Joe. You’ve already heard the story of where I found Brendon. That’s all I can give you besides the details of feeding, and I know you don’t like to hear that.” Pete sighs.

“Yeah, I know…I know. Pete, I just…I can’t get over it. It’s been a couple months, sure, but…god, I’ve never seen you like that.” Pete’s hand curls around Joe’s forearm as comfort (Pete? Comfort? What?), giving a gentle squeeze. “He just wiped everything?”

“Joe, I didn’t even know who you were, let alone cared. Of course he did. Don’t know how the fuck he managed to pull that off…but yeah, everything.”

Silence draped over them, and Pete could hear the dull murmur of voices floating from the television downstairs.

“Look, I’m sorry for keeping you guys in the dark like that. I thought I could get Brendon out by going in and finding a way. I just…I had no idea how bad it really was. He had Brendon wrapped so tight around his finger that Brendon had dual voices. Dual voices, Joe. He was this empty shell for Beckett to use.

I couldn’t sit there and let it go on any longer. I…I needed him. You see that now, right? I never expected for him to bring me back.”

“Yeah,” Joe laughed. “I’ll admit that your plan was fucked from the start, but that’s pretty damn noble of you to do that.”

There was that ache again, pulsing just to the right of Pete’s eyebrow, spreading and then disappearing. He didn’t respond to Joe when he went still, looking about in confusion. He listened downstairs, to the ghostly silence. He knows how much Brendon likes to make noise to make the others feel protected knowing who’s around. Something was wrong.

Without even thinking, he shoved Joe away, bolting through the doorway and down the stairs. The distance from the hallway to the front sitting room was nothing with Pete’s momentum to carry him. “Brendon?” he called. Pete’s eyes darted around the room, trying to find the whimpering. Just around the couch, he found it. Brendon was on all fours on the rug, convulsing, stretching, and wrestling with himself with hands braced at his temples. At something like this, Pete drew a blank. He could feel where it hurt, but that was as far as it went. Brendon cried out now, escalating to a growl.

“Pete, shit, it hurts! So much!” he cried.

No, this was not happening again. Nonononononono

Joe came barreling down the stairs moments later (about 6 seconds after Pete and his reflexes) to join Pete in the disorder. Of course Joe wouldn’t know what to do at a time like this when not even Pete knew what the fuck was going on with another vampire.

To Pete’s horror, the cries turned to sick laughter. Joe took a wary step back, glancing to Pete as if to say Shit, man, you weren’t kidding about those voices. 

Brendon stood up in a heartbeat, standing upright to face Pete and getting nose to nose with him. Brendon breathed hot and heavy against Pete’s face, grinning by design with abnormally dilated pupils, opaque and soulless as that one time everyone tries to forget about.

Brendon spoke with a richer, smoother voice, saturated with malice at every word. “So, Peter, you have taken what is rightfully mine. I suppose if I can’t have him, neither can you.”

The snarl in Pete’s throat was pure instinct.


	16. Chapter 16

Pete hated Brendon’s laugh. It wasn’t real; none of him was real right now. It drove him insane that Brendon was here, but not really. It was the laugh that made him snap, finally, lunging at Brendon in his restraints, pinning him to the bed and getting nose-to-nose with him until he could feel Brendon’s sickening grin against his cheek as his hand gripped at Brendon’s throat.

But it wasn’t Brendon.

This was practically torture on them both, equal shares of emotional and psychological pain. It was even beyond Patrick at what could be done about it. He was lost, not knowing that if he even tried to pry at all with Brendon’s current state, it could fuck with his mind so bad, Brendon could pretty much become useless to anyone, or let him fall even further to where anything remotely resembling rescue would be futile. Brendon wasn’t kidding when he said he was immersed so deep. William had not let him go.

Pete could now understand that he was strong enough to break away, just soon enough to avoid any long-lasting effects. Brendon on the other hand, his psyche was so fragile, so corruptible and innocent that William made permanent camp there, biding his time until it was perfect enough to screw everyone over again.

He’d slip out of it every now and then, only for a couple hours, a day at the most, and then he was back to the taunting, bloodthirsty monster with a voice that wasn’t his.

Now was one of those times. He’s still chained to the bed; hands and feet bound with padded cuffs and slacked industrial-strength chains. Brendon sleeps most of these times, mind so exhausted that he doesn’t have the strength to fight William off again. But he’s trying to stay awake right now, just an hour longer.

Pete kneels beside him, hands curled to his chest. They’re as close as they can get with the slack Brendon has from the bolts in the wall, and a safe distance between them for the inevitable moment when Brendon disappears again. Pete just stares at him, wanting so much to help him, trying to think of any way possible.

“Brendon, stay awake, please, just a bit longer”

“I’m so tired.” Brendon breathed, eyes rolling back between consciousnesses. He looked horrible. Dark circles were prominent above his cheekbones. He was even losing muscle mass despite living off of a healthy diet of O Positive packets. His mind was working too hard between personalities that his body would no longer tolerate the nutrition. And the breathing was never a good sign, whistling past his teeth like he’d just run a marathon.

“I know, Bren. I just- tell me how I can fix this. Tell me—“

“You can’t, Peter.” Brendon had begun using his name properly with a fondness, like he was never going to use it again with purpose and love. “I can…feel him…in my head, every second he’s there.”

Pete reaches for his trembling hand and Brendon reflexively shies away from it, as if his mental torment is contagious.

“Try, Bren. God, please try. Push him away.” Pete was practically sobbing now. He tried to soak up as much time as he could with Brendon, his friend.

Brendon shifted, chains rattling with the movement as they scraped across the floor. He moved his arms to the hem of his dirtied shirt and worried at the fabric. “I can’t, just can’t anymore.” He winced now, breath hitching. “You need to let me go, Peter.”

“No, I won’t. Brendon, no.”

“He’s coming.” It was a split second shift, Pete’s eyes moving from Brendon’s parched mouth and teeth, and back up, meeting those opaque eyes again, almost seeing himself in the glassy stare.

William smirked back at him.


	17. Chapter 17

Merrill had never been inside the warehouse before, having only met Joe and Andy once before. They’d rescued her, of course, like all other damsels the infestation preys upon, but they hadn’t pressed upon the matter too much. They seemed somewhat normal. The circumstances on which they had met were not the most ideal, but the two proved to be polite and level-headed. And being asked to assist them was something that, for her to even agree to, took longer than expected. When they’d rescued her, she felt the presence of another with them, and managed to catch a glimpse of them before disappearing altogether. It definitely looked human, but it for sure did not move like one.

She felt that same presence now, could see it—him more clearly. He’s tattooed, small in stature, but what he lacks in height, he definitely makes up for in presentation. She can’t take her eyes off of him, just as his follow her as she’s led past the aging furniture and littered papers. He definitely fits the scene, and he’s curious; eyes wide to take her in. It hits her square in the chest, the moment when she realizes what he is. His demeanor is different here. He isn’t running away like their last encounter, because he definitely remembers her.

His curse is that he can never forget. Her scent is the same; her face is burned into his memory. He buries his hands into the sleeves of his leather jacket, clears his throat, and takes a breath to clear his head from the high he’s coming down from.

“Don’t mind Pete,” Andy throws over his shoulder, continuing across the open space to the closed offices. “you’ll learn to just ignore him like he does to us.”

Merrill hesitates and grips the strap of her purse on her shoulder, taking another glance behind her and spotting him, still slumped against the wall by the roll-up door. His eyes are half-lidded now, yet they still follow her every move. They’re electric amber, keeping tabs and never letting her go.

She catches up to Andy, tapping his shoulder, but they keep pace, being swallowed up by the silent confines of the offices. “I-is he, he’s…he’s one of them, isn’t he?” She doesn’t want to say it out loud. He’s a walking contradiction. If he was going to attack her, he completely failed, as he failed to do the last time.

“Yeah,” Andy answers nonchalantly, ushering her down another corridor to a slew of doors, branching into other offices. “He’s pretty harmless for the most part. Occasionally, he’ll go insane, but who wouldn’t when you’re like that?” He stops then, eyeing her and rooting her to the floor. The door beside them is reinforced with layer upon layer of steel with bolts as big as her knuckles. It’s serious, more than she even thought. “Listen, I know you’re scared. What we’re asking of you is probably too much, and you can say no after we pitch this to you. But I want you to understand that Pete won’t be a danger to you. He didn’t choose for this to happen to him but he’s in control. Put it this way: if he didn’t like you, you wouldn’t have made it through.”

\--

After an agonizingly slow hour of pitching their bait idea, Patrick was pleased to say the least that Merrill had agreed. There was arguing. She had nearly fainted at the thought of putting herself in danger of being fed upon again, but she was a perfect target for many of the cliques that prowled the city. What she didn’t know was that it wasn’t any of those in the room that had chosen her specifically. All in all, it was in hopes to attract only one in particular.

She smelled like him. Like both of them.

It was unmistakable.

Joe was the one to hold the door open, and as soon as Merrill followed his invitation, he was there. He looked like a child. The leather jacket was off now, tossed on the floor, most likely. He’s wiry without the extra layer, in just a worn shirt that hangs off of him in most places. But he doesn’t meet her eyes, keeping them to the floor.

He’s been waiting, patiently, nervously. Her scent had weaseled its way through the wall, under the door, and it took all of Pete’s willpower not to press himself up against it and lose himself; not just because it was impolite, but he knew the truth that it wasn’t really him was worse than letting it engulf him.

“Do you trust them?”

She’s taken aback by the grit in his voice. It’s like damp earth. It’s almost a mumble, and she thinks it’s by habit how he hides his teeth with his lips when he talks. “Sure.” is all she manages to say. The others are looking at them, hoping to remedy this awkward encounter between them, but there’s a first for everything. Joe and Andy flank her, with the ever-bookish Patrick beside Pete. This seems to alleviate his own tension with how his jaw unclenches and his expression softens.

“She’s agreed to help us, for however long it takes.” Patrick states.

“But she’s afraid of me. I can smell it on her.”

Of all things, and for his own selfish reasons, Pete wishes she was more afraid. He wants her for the sake of being closer to him. It’s overpowering and he needs the okay to let go. He needs that permission. He doesn’t take his eyes off of her, completely forgetting how unsettling it is to humans when he forgets to move.

Joe moves to break the silence. “This is what we talked about, Merrill. You need to be able to trust him. He needs to know that you do.”

“But I already agreed to do this. How is that not enough?”

“Because,” Pete grunts. “I’ll still feel you shaking, like you are now. Hesitating will only make me slip up more. I need to know your boundaries with this. I can’t protect you when it really counts if you don’t show me that you have absolute trust in me.”

Pete hold his breath when she speaks, when the scent only gets stronger and he’s simply trying not to black out with want.

And he then remembers why he chose her. The resilience she shows in these outbursts of determination are what set her apart from the other pathetic girls they’ve saved over the years. In a way, if this goes through, it’ll give Pete some piece of mind. Merrill reaches for him, making that first contact. Pete anchors himself to his spot, but he’s having tunnel vision. Everything whites out but her and her scent and her hand and her touch and just gentletoogentletoogentle

Her hand now grips his wrist, and the touch isn’t quite like his. She’s too soft but her grip is so sure now. Pete is like cold granite under her palm, stoic and aloof. His eyes have all but glazed over now and his hand now has a mind of his own. It’s breaking all of the rules and causing absolute disaster to just pull her into him and hold her there. He buries his nose into her hair and just disappears.

The scent engulfs him in that perfect combination of him and himself. Everything is complete again and he can be at peace. This is too easy. Why was it that simple? He’s back and with him and he almost feels whole again. This feels like something to live for and he wants all of it all of it all of it now

Merrill whimpers at Pete’s grip around her. His arms are like a cage that become ever more restrictive. She’s losing her breath but it’s not like he notices when they don’t need to breathe.

Patrick sees her desperation. She’s turning red and Pete is slipping away, a Lennie that’s slowly suffocating his beloved rabbits with affection.

“It’s not Brendon.” Patrick says. Touching Pete would be an exercise in futility. They’re essentially talking to a near-sobbing rock. “Pete, let go. It’s not Brendon.” Pete doesn’t move, and Merrill’s hands are crushed between them. “Merrill, tell him!”

Through the haze, Pete can pick up subtle murmurs. He doesn’t want to leave. He just got here. He has forever, doesn’t he? Why couldn’t it start now? The voices are urging him, growing louder. Images of him begin to disintegrate before his eyes. He can’t lose him again. Nononononono not now, please.

“I’m not Brendon, Peter.”

\----

Patrick has finally concluded that it’s not Brendon who’s insane, but Pete. Watching over your friend is one thing, experimenting on him is another. This idea had Pete pinned against the wall. Pete didn’t even try to fight back, just let himself be dragged down the hall as Brendon slept and allow Patrick berate him for a good half hour.

It’s just…to Pete, Patrick didn’t understand. This needed to end. Brendon is slipping, everyone knows it. He’s been so weak lately that he can’t even get up off the floor until Beckett takes over again, and it’s like he’s finally giving up. There’s no fight left in him. Pete is tired of living through these back and forth motions and when it all comes down, he’s done with his vendetta with Beckett and just wants him to leave him and Brendon the fuck alone. It’s that simple.

Patrick, on the other hand, does understand that there is a fine line between Brendon and Beckett at this point, but it isn’t something Pete can tool around with…and he thinks it’s a little demented (despite how demented his life is right now) to be pushing the fragility of Brendon’s state.

Eventually, to Brendon’s careful warning (“Whatever I know, he knows, Peter. I know you…mean well…b-but the less you reveal to me about any plans you have, the more security—the safer you are.”) Pete decided that this was the crucial moment to decide what to do. Tonight, he would intentionally speak to William.

Pete led her down the hall, stepping lightly yet bold enough that his shoes tapped faintly against the concrete (Brendon’s little trick to not freak out over his visitors, because yeah… he did flip out once when Andy came in to feed him, so thank god for the chains). Merrill was used to these crazy requests from Pete, so it wasn’t like she was trembling over doing this little experiment. She was just afraid of Brendon. She’d only seen him at his worst, when he was notorious for his merciless and torturous killings, and at one point, she had been under the business end of his hypnotic stare that she concluded he’d use when he was too lazy to chase his meal. It wasn’t the fact that she couldn’t keep herself from picturing his sadistic smile again with those hungry fangs, no…it couldn’t be that.

Pete could feel the apprehension radiating off of her, and turned as they reached the door, hand on the latch. The hall light was off, letting his eyes shimmer in the settling dark. Merrill didn’t flinch when he reached to lightly brush her arm, in the most comforting way he could manage. This wasn’t any different from their hunting stints. All she needed to do was play the victim again, minus Andy and the illusion of secluded lovers. “Hey, he’s not… he’s not like that anymore. I promise. Just…you’ll see.”

She could see Pete’s face fall sadly at this, at the word anymore, like there was another meaning behind it.  
“I’ll call you in, just give me a second.” he instructed.  
Pete slipped through the small crack in the door, leaving it open before approaching Brendon crumpled on the bed. Leaning close and speaking into his ear, he tried to coax him awake. Pete shook his shoulder gingerly, and Brendon groaned.  
“Bren, hey, I brought something for you. Wake up.” Brendon groaned again, trying to push himself up. Pete got the hint and began to assist, scooping Brendon’s sinuous frame from under his arms, hoisting him up so that he could at least sit upright. “C’mon, Bren.”

Brendon managed a meager smirk, though not yet able to lift his head yet. “Y-yeah? Don’t—don’t be wasting my time with those dumb postcards again.” It hurt to laugh, as much as he wanted to do it for Pete’s sake. Someone had to lighten the fucking mood.

“No…no, it’s…better, so much better.” Pete pressed. “Come on in.”

Once the door pushed open, Brendon instantly stiffened at the scent. This reaction at least gave him enough energy to actually look for the source. He pursed his lips, searching the dark a moment before landing on Merrill, letting out a gasp and looking to Pete, absolutely confused.

‘P-Pete…what—“

“This is for you, B. Take it.”

Merrill looked diffidently between them, not knowing if she should encourage Brendon, or wait for Pete’s act to continue. She noted how far Brendon had fallen from his reputation as a natural-born predator in his prime. This one was weakened so badly that she could probably finish him off with him having no ounce of energy to fight back. He looked vulnerable though, as if he was afraid he’d hurt her despite his restraints, the innocent and helpless look in his eyes beneath the matted hair she couldn’t help but take notice. Brendon, though, looked completely mortified.  
“Pete, n-no…I can’t. No no no.”

“It’s for the taking, Bren. Go ahead.” Pete held out his hand for Merrill’s invitation, and she hesitantly took it, stalking closer and kneeling before him, ignoring her pounding pulse in his cool grip, inching to Brendon’s space.

“This is a person, Pete. I can’t just…” He flinched away from her offering wrist, coiling in on himself and trying to hide how badly he wanted it. “No. Please don’t do this to me.”

Now Merrill really understood what Pete had drilled into her before, at how delicate humanity was. It was obvious that Brendon’s was hanging by a thread, at how his fragile-looking hands twisted together just to keep himself from even looking at her.

“Brendon,” Pete mused, trying to regain his fading focus after seeing his eyes slowly grow more opaque as the seconds ticked by. He still held Merrill’s arm close to his face. “Do you want her? I know you’re hungry.”

Brendon’s head twitched, almost as if he was crying under the pressure. “I do, b-but…I can’t. I can’t feed this way. I-it’s inhumane.” He managed to catch her stare, wincing and tilting his head against the wall. He didn’t try to compel her at all, but looked at her compassionately, even with a twinge of guilt. “Merrill,” he croaked, throat parched and eyes slowly growing milkier, losing the rich brown pigment. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about this, and for everything I’ve done, even for everything I might do.” He flinched again, running his tongue along the ridge of his teeth. “Pete, g-get her out of here.”

Merrill watched the milky film slowly consume the pools of brown, and that grin slowly creep back. Like clockwork, Brendon slowly rose, effortlessly, tilting his head slightly and inspecting her again. She wanted to run now, but Pete’s vice grip kept her in place.

“Well, Peter,” The voice underlying Brendon’s laughed a bit in the words. “I like this new method of mealtimes that you’ve come up with. Seems that Brendon’s seen this one before, judging by his reaction. You do smell divine, lovely, there is no doubt about that.”

Pete gripped Merrill’s arm protectively, and she recoiled. He had warned her about this, and of course, she knew who William was. Pete gritted his teeth to keep back the snarl. “You want her now, don’t you?” he shot back.

Brendon smiled wide, letting his head fall back. His teeth were longer, and Merrill knew at any moment that her screams would no longer be planned or faked. “Peter, I wanted her the moment I smelled her coming through the front door. But you won’t give her to me, will you?”

Merrill flinched back into Pete’s hold when Brendon leaned toward her, baring his teeth, purring like it was just them in a dark alley, no boundaries.  
“She’s for Brendon.”

Brendon leaned back against the headboard with a huff, looking smug and chewing on his lip. His cloudy eyes flickered back and forth between the two, calculating the situation. “That is unfortunate. You’re torturing him with this, and I know you can feel how bad his hunger is. You’ve made him weak, Peter.” Brendon glared at him now. Merrill buried her face into Pete’s chest, now trembling violently. “After all that I’ve done for him, you go and bring him down and degrade him like this.”

“Says the hypocrite that turned him on a whim. You ruined his life.” Pete hissed. His patience and restraint were walking a very unstable rope right now. He could feel it vibrating beneath his skin.

“I ruined it? I built him a life, only for you to tear it all down. I’m not through with him, Peter, and I will have him again.”

William had tied his own noose and it was a fucking miracle to Pete at how naïve he was. It proved how desperate and determined he was over one person. Pete was going to end this now, by any means necessary.

“Well, you’re only proving yourself a coward. Brendon is not a shield for you to hide behind. If you want him so badly, come and get him.”

“You’re treading dangerous waters, Peter.”

Pete snarled, loud and vicious that echoed off of the concrete walls and died to a low rumble. His hatred showed completely in this demonstration of rage. The sound could’ve been received as throat-splitting, but it wasn’t as if that would stop Pete at all. Merrill clung tighter to his shirt against his rumbling chest. Brendon backed off. “I said, come and get him.”

“If you wish it.”


	18. Chapter 18

Three days after Brendon was turned, he comes to. The room is dark; the windows having been covered with blackout curtains. He can’t think properly, like something incredibly distracting is thrumming in his veins. 

This is not my room, he thinks.

He notices his parched throat, only for a second before snapping to attention with the new scents in the room. The aroma of laundry detergent was nearly overwhelming in the small space, but soon he began to panic. These sensations were not normal, and as much as he would normally love to make sexual jokes about this, hearing heartbeats in the walls was not something Brendon fancied…at least not now.

Trying to shift his focus from the sounds, he tried to identify his surroundings a little more closely. This was a room he had never been in; most likely the one Pete and Patrick advised him never to go into. There wasn’t much here anyway; there was the window of course, the bed he found himself on that didn’t have as much dust on it was the concrete corners of the room so that must be fairly new and minimalist, industrial-strength bolts rising out of the seamless floor, and the meat locker door that looked a bit too ostentatious for the doorframe. There was no decoration, no embellishment whatsoever and Brendon felt smothered in the bland gray like the stone walls were closing in on him.

A thumping heartbeat was just on the other side of the door, hesitating. Brendon could just make out the thin line of shadow from the soft glow of light that crept from the microscopic cracks in the frame.

“Patrick?” he called, hoping to god it was at least someone he knew. Footsteps answered by tapping against the floor wonderingly. He began to grow anxious by the lack of verbal communication. Nervousness grew in the pit of his stomach and he began to fidget with the hem of the shirt he doesn’t remember putting on. It was maroon and faded, most likely Pete’s and he was thankful to have a little familiarity at the moment.

Then the voice murmured from the other end, just as anxious as he was, nothing if not defensively hostile. The desperate grin that spread on Brendon’s face quickly dissipated. “Pete! I’m in here.” Brendon did not realize how raw his voice sounded. He sucked in a shaky breath when the deadbolts began to click. They did so slower than he would’ve liked, but as he sat hunched beside the bed, perhaps he began to regret the decision. His instinct for self-preservation was unusually high.

Pete shoved the door open with much effort, like the room was a vault and Brendon was the treasure, but that was overshooting the truth. He looked quite defeated as he pushed the door shut again, grunting with the objects in his hands.

A stake,  
And a packet of donated blood.

Okay, what?

Pete just…stood there…looking at him. It was like he didn’t even recognize Brendon at all. The stare was intense and skeptical. Brendon backed into the wall further when his gaze left Pete’s to the stake in his hand. Pete gripped it unnervingly like he was weighing his options. To Brendon, he couldn’t figure any possible options other than his craving for the packet in Pete’s right hand. Yet, he didn’t want to move. He felt threatened by Pete.

His only focus was on the packet now and his line of vision narrowed to tunnel status. Brendon licked his lips languidly, still thumbing the hem of the shirt like Pavlov’s dogs.

“Brendon, which one do you want?”

Pete was offering two options, quite merciful for someone with his kind of attitude now.

The wrist, or the packet.  
Pick one.

This was a test of the worst kind. Brendon always gave in to his cravings (there was this inside joke for a while about buying himself a prostitute, but he wouldn’t risk health over momentary and regrettable pleasure) and this seemed to be so much stronger now. It was Pete, or a willing source. Brendon stood shakily, hand braced on the bed, and staggered forward closed in on himself like a reprimanded puppy, not even attempting to look Pete in the eye. He wanted Pete’s wrist, so bad, and his clenched fist hesitated for it a moment as he thought it through. Brendon, like the sacrificial lamb that he is, went for the right hand but also like the pathetic human being he was, he couldn’t even grab the packet. Instead, he knocked it out of Pete’s palm like he had a severe case of Parkinson’s.

But the fact was, Brendon put the pieces together. He knew he was no longer human. He wasn’t stupid, he just couldn’t fully comprehend it yet.

The decision opened a floodgate inside Pete, like a slew of emotion just couldn’t take the barriers he’d set up only minutes prior. The stake clattered to the floor.

“Pete, what’s happening to me?” Brendon mumbled. “Am I still me?”

“Yeah,” Pete grinned, taking Brendon’s pale face in his hands. “You’re still you.”


	19. Chapter 19

The weeks went by with no sign of Beckett. Pete was getting restless, but he couldn’t let Brendon know a thing. The sun was still up, judging by the angle, around noon. Brendon was half-asleep in Pete’s lap. He had regained some strength over the last few days, and hasn’t had a single lapse since. He was still weak though, and he couldn’t get around on his own. But that’s what Pete was there for, right?

Brendon shifted and licked his lips. He hadn’t fed in three days, far past due. The camera in Pete’s hands flashed images of the past, the bright side of it anyway, back when Brendon would spew smoothies in the daylight hours every time he laughed and those times, the very rare ones, where Pete took time off of hunting to try and cook with him before destroying the kitchen. The one they’ve stopped at now was of Brendon, volunteering at a homeless shelter, playing with a couple of children in finger paint. Pete had to laugh at this, at least give a chuckle to lighten Brendon’s spirits, and it worked because Brendon was coughing as he tried to laugh along with him.

Pete wishes things weren’t as fucked up as they are now, but can’t shake the feeling that Brendon was meant for this. It was evident by how well he was handling the circumstances.

A week after the test, Brendon had persuaded Pete to take him out. He put on his most serene face and it didn’t take long for the whining to start that Pete relented. He had decided, regrettably with hindsight, that the park was a suitable place to start. Brendon was distracted, more so than usual but it wasn’t that he was trying to hide it, he was trying to become accustomed to his new heightened senses.

He and Pete were in a sparsely populated area of Lincoln Park, seated beneath a spruce tree and trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible. It was just difficult with all of the sounds and pulses. It was what Brendon tired to focus on that kept him so grounded. Thinking and concentrating on Pete’s pulse was what kept him so grounded. This was Brendon’s mantra. Each time Pete’s heart pounded another time, it reminded him that he wasn’t killing and that he still wanted to hear it. As long as it was beating, Brendon was not a monster.

“How bad is it?” Pete asked, tracing the veins in Brendon’s wrist with his eyes. Brendon ears perked at each little sound, heard or unheard.

“It’s not how bad it is, really. There’s just…so much. It’s great in some ways—“

“Except for the part about drinking blood.” Pete cut in with a disgusted tone.

“Of course, Pete, if you have to focus on that one thing, it’s that everything is sharper and even more potent. All of it is so hard to ignore.” Brendon pawed at the grass.

“Yeah? How?”

Brendon smirked, showing a bit of teeth and looking at Pete with knowing eyes. “There’s a hot dog stand 200 yards away with stale water in it. The dog across lawn is peeing on a tree —“

“Oh, bullshit, Brendon. Stop fucking around.”

“Your heart skips a beat every 6 cycles and your blood pumps slower through your carotid than your other arteries.” Brendon returned his attention to the park, suddenly shifting to a plane flying overhead and watching it cross the skyline.

Pete was silent for a moment and let out a breath he didn’t know he held. “Okay…well, shit, Brendon, did you have to put it like that? You could’ve stopped at the dog. I feel a little violated knowing that you can time my heartbeat whenever you please.”

“Pete, you don’t know how distracting it is. You know I want it, but I won’t lay a hand on you, right?”

“Yeah, I know. So it’s me that keeps you from going insane?”

Brendon grins, throwing back his head and laughing heartedly. “To put it matter-of-factly, yes, but I’m not insane yet.”

Brendon freezes abruptly, and Pete continues the conversation in mute from Brendon’s end. The sound that reaches his ears broke past all of the others, drowning them out and Pete’s words like white noise to a radio. Pete was shaking him now but all Brendon did was shove him off, and hard, making Pete slide back a couple feet.

He stood slowly, eyes still searching. Pete scrambles to stand and sprints to catch up with Brendon who has already started across the vast lawn.  
“Brendon, stop!” he called, trying to block his path to no avail as Brendon continues to shake him off. Pete doesn’t want to take him down in public like this, at least with so many witnesses, and he had a little reserve for his closest friend. He just hopes it’s still his friend he’s trying to get through to.  
“Brendon, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“God, shut up, Peter!” Brendon shot back. He shoved him off again and continued toward the edge of the park, where a group gathered, and Pete had that familiar itch crawling through his skin. It was merely an impulse to reach for the stake in his jacket. Brendon picked up pace in his stride, enough that, with the wind picking up, he nearly lunged at the gathering.

He hissed, and it sounded so alien to Pete’s ears that he shuddered at the sound. Brendon bared his teeth, and the group revealed themselves as Goths, pretty weak when it came to facing Hunters being that in any situation including feeding, they don’t bother to put up a fight if they think it isn’t worth it. But Brendon was no longer a Hunter. It was evident in the way they grinned that they knew. It was as if they could smell that Brendon was a virgin to feeding on his own—no, they did smell it. There was no fanfare with how they parted for him to reveal the child they’d been cornering, and they left the way they came, back into the shadows like a breeze on the lake.

This was what Pete didn’t want to happen; to have Brendon feeding from an innocent in one of the most populated areas in Chicago and have him mindlessly going on a rampage. And the kid made his fears that much worse. The girl was no more than five or six in an over-sized RUN-DMC shirt that went to her calves and coffee locks falling over her shoulders on self-handled berets,. Brendon stood stoically and silent, towering over this poor girl.

He wasn’t gorging on her.  
??? went Pete’s brain.

The wind whipped up again, brushing his hair around his face as he stood stock still, shirt flapping against his stomach. Brendon couldn’t feel the chill like the child did. She was helpless, looking up at him with a hint of vague curiosity and terror, sniffling tears. Brendon scuffed his shoe into the pavement of the sidewalk and flexed his fingers, taking a calming breath before kneeling to get eye-to-eye with her.

Pete was ready to pounce at any moment yet he didn’t want to mess with what could be Brendon’s last reserves of control.

When Brendon reached that first trembling hand to cup her face, she flinched with fear and the abnormality of his skin. All of the flaws of being human were even more evident when looking between the two. The man was absolute perfection compared to the innocence of the child, so much so that it was indeed unnatural.  
“Hey, shh, don’t cry, love.” he said wistfully, thumbing away lingering tears and trying to put on a smirk that wouldn’t otherwise frighten her more. “They won’t come back. I’m Brendon. What is your name?”

She sniffled a few times and twiddled her thumbs. Pete had no idea Brendon was fairly great with children.  
“M-M-Moira.”

Brendon’s grin grew warmly. “Moira, why are you here all by yourself?” He leaned forward, even closer and breaking any kind of rules regarding personal space. The murmurs were impossible to pick up from Pete’s distance as he tried to eavesdrop but only picked up the subtle nods of their heads and the reassuring smile Brendon was projecting, and doing a fucking amazing job in Pete’s opinion. He could sell snake oil with it any time he damn well pleased.

Brendon stood and took her hand in his, and with one last comforting grin, he stared pointedly forward.  
“Let’s go find her then. I’m sure she’s around here somewhere looking for you too.” As he passed Pete’s dumbfounded face, Brendon shot a knowing glare in his direction, shaking his head half condescendingly and half amused.

“Still think I’m becoming the monster?”

On Pete’s list of Brendon’s Most Shocking and Profound Acts, this wouldn’t even come close to what he would do three months later.


	20. Chapter 20

Another five weeks passed with no sign from the Dandies and their figurehead. Pete tried to keep calm, telling himself that he didn’t need to go out, and that William would come to him as Brendon assured him he would. Pete gets his wish on day 58. It doesn’t happen to him firsthand like he expected, wanting to finish this fight face to face, unfortunately, and the shout that echoed down the staircase finally set him off. It was Patrick’s turn to feed Brendon tonight, so it leaves another motive for Pete to drop what he was doing in the kitchen and bolt up the stairs without thinking twice. He’d been on edge for weeks and this was where he was relieved to have that familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him. He races down the hall and bursts through the vault doorway. The tree packets Patrick brought up lay forgotten at his feet. Patrick is gazing about the room in complete shock: first at the cracked window, then to the restraints that lay in pieces, limp on the floor.  
“Fuck.” Patrick hisses.

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.  
But this can’t be right, Pete thinks. His thoughts race, and when Patrick makes a move toward the window, Pete puts a stern hand to his chest that stops him dead in his tracks, shaking his head.

“Don’t.” he orders quietly. A growl rumbles deep in his throat in warning, hairs bristling at the nape of his neck.

The potent scent of him still lingers. Pete bares his teeth and narrows his stare.  
The air in the room is electric, prickling.

It’s in that split second between blinks and breaths, the moment Pete exhales and glances away, the moment he lets go of Patrick and takes that first tentative step toward the restraint wall.

Brendon lunges, and Pete only catches a glimpse of his moving form in his peripheral. He was up on the ceiling, perched precariously between the far corner and the frame of the door, and pounced with calculated efficiency, wrapping himself around Patrick like a pale octopus and attaching his mouth to the jugular. The roll of Brendon’s throat as he drank, the fluttering of his eyelids and ecstatic groans went in slow motion for Pete, who petrified with disbelief.

His whole existence flashed before his eyes before it was ripped away from him, and he was shoved back into reality when Patrick’s choked cry rang shrill and anguished around them. He scrambled into the one-sided struggle. Patrick was barely making a dent in the fight to get Brendon off of him and he was rapidly losing strength with each of Brendon’s desirous swallows.

Pete snarled and went for Brendon’s shoulders, clawing and not succeeding in the least to pry him off. Brendon wouldn’t budge; he appeared to clamp down harder and posessively onto Patrick as they sank to the floor.

“Get off of him!” Pete howled, going for another feeble attempt to separate them. That plan went completely to shit. He was forced back by a fist in his hair and thrown in the other direction, sliding across the concrete floor, his hip hitting the handle of the makeshift painfully and most likely breaking it off.

And there he stands.

As Brendon continues to feed, the condescending laugh begins.  
“Jealously doesn’t suit you. Don’t be sour that he got to Mr. Stump before you ever struck up the nerve.” William towered over Pete like a scolding parent to a child.

Brendon breaks away from Patrick with a large gulp of air and a pleased sigh. Patrick’s blood smeared his mouth and shirt. The smirk on his face was horrifying and wrong…all wrong, and in this moment, Pete abandoned all hope. In his gut, that itch, he felt he’d lost Brendon for good. He didn’t even seem to bother to clean up his mess, and William took notice. He ran a finger along Brendon’s dripping jaw as he stared down at Pete, helpless on the floor, and tasted the blood, grinning.  
“Excellent taste, Brendon.”

Patrick was trembling on the ground, back turned to Pete and still bleeding on the floor. William now motions Brendon forward, almost in silent conversation. Brendon at his side, they smirk wickedly at Pete, and Brendon makes a move to keep him on the floor with the weight of his bare foot to his cheek. He turns Pete’s face slowly and grins, running his tongue over his pink-tinted teeth.

This is Brendon at his most terrifying. The blood smeared over his mouth drips in some places, flakes off in others. Eyes are black orbs mocking his futile situation.

“Don’t touch Patrick.” is all Pete can manage. Joe and Andy barrel in through the doorway, armed and alert, but the scene is too much for them to handle. They’re just as dumbstruck, particularly in seeing Pete so vulnerable and defeated. He doesn’t even bother to fight back now. It all falls apart in less than two minutes, and it’s pushed Pete so far off the edge that he’d willingly throw himself into sunlight, just to amuse the crowds curious enough to get close.

“You move, and Pete will be nothing but ash.” William threatened, not breaking eye contact with Brendon, keeping sharp focus on his face. The weight of Brendon’s foot wasn’t enough to crush him, but enough that he couldn’t move without feeling the unbearable pressure.

This is the last he’ll ever see of Brendon.

“Why would I do anything to him, Peter?” Brendon sneered, licking the blood on his fingers languidly. “I’m going to make him watch what I’m going to do to you.” He said this like it was being told to a child, mocking and naive. “Perhaps I’ll start with Mr. Trohman.” He focused his attention on Joe, compelling him with a glare. “Drop the weapon.” He commanded, dual voices stern and clear. Beckett continued to smirk down at Pete, mulling over different methods of torture. Joe’s gun clattered to the ground.

“I believe it was a mistake to make you. It was an impulse at the time. Brendon felt incomplete, so naturally, I would comply to my progeny’s wishes; nevertheless, with hindsight, I can tell it was one of the worst decisions I've made in my 400 years.", William snarled. Brendon removed his foot, giving leverage for William to get Pete by the collar of his shirt and hoist him up against the wall, his other hand coming up to grip his throat. “I had you once, Peter. When it was you and Brendon together, it was beautiful. I couldn’t imagine anything less than the finest example of what we are. I should’ve expected you to be just as stubborn as you were human. What a waste.” He smacks his lips condescendingly and purses them in a drawn scowl, eyes narrowing.

Though Pete was somewhat broken, he was as defiant as ever. It was as if his eyes were deeper, the spark that had been there for so long had been swallowed by the void.

“All this time, you have been such a little shit. Why is it so difficult to just accept what you are? It's easier to give in, instead of being less.”

Without thinking, Pete spits in his face. William’s reaction is just as fast, grip tightening around Pete’s throat, and with a snarl, thrust Pete to the ground and gives several blows to his ribs. Pete had landed with a sharp crack against the concrete that made Andy wince at the sickening sound. Pete cried out to Brendon with each harsh kick to his side, and…the air shifts.

Brendon wasn’t smiling anymore. He wasn’t laughing or egging William on like he should. Andy pieced it all together. With William’s focus broken, his influence on Brendon loosened its grip. But, as soon as he made a move toward Pete, Brendon snapped his attention back to him with a stern scowl and held up his finger.  
“Don’t you dare, Andrew.”

Andy was desperate now, Patrick bleeding at their feet, Joe completely taken, and Pete crying in agony with every swipe and fierce kick Becket delivered. Looking between Brendon and Pete, he felt that the connection was still there, delicate and faint, and knew exactly what must be done. Brendon’s last resort.

_”You don’t know that, B. Don’t think like that.”_

_“No, Pete. He won’t stop. If it happens, it’s the only thing left that may work. You remember what it means. It’s all you need.”_

“Pete!” Andy shouted, harsh and broken over the screams. Pete snuck a glance in his direction, trying to shield his lesioned face. “Say it! Do it, now!”

Through gasps and whimpers, Pete knew exactly what Andy meant. He fought to stay completely conscious when William knelt and pulled him up in his grip, biting harshly into his shoulder.

“Paralian!” he screamed, half out of torture and delirium.

Brendon stiffened, froze like he was impaled, and dropped his stare from Andy and Joe. His expression faltered and he turned slowly to face Pete, confused and horrified. He stumbled backwards toward the wall, and Pete said it again, trying earnestly to claw William off of him, only for him to pull away and find a new place to clamp down on.

“Paralian! Brendon! Paralian!”

Each word hung in the air and piercing Brendon more to where he slid down the wall, doubling over in the pulsing pain as the weight of the word rang through his mind. As Andy was scrambling between Joe and Patrick, he could make out Brendon’s pinched face beneath the fringe of hair. His eyes were fighting a battle of their own, how the milky blue would be swallowed by the brown, then come back full force. A full on war raged inside of him and blood began to drip from his ears and nose.

William snapped from Pete’s shoulder to Brendon and Andy with murder in his eyes, dilated to where there was no hint of white.  
“No!” he growled. “Nononononononono!” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pete make a break for the stake forgotten a few inches away, and he catches him just in time, nails ripping through the artery and tendon in Pete’s left wrist. Pete screams, and it breaks through every other sound like a knife, blood gushing from the wound and pooling, so close to Patrick’s own forming puddle. William dives for it and closes his fingers around the splintering wood.

Andy has never seen a vampire this feral, and it terrifies him, burning the image into his mind forever. He shakes Joe out of his stupor and springs into action once he feels Brendon’s movement escalate into thrashing and whimpers. William is poised to drive the stake through Pete’s ribcage, licking his lips and baring his teeth with a vicious hiss. Andy throws himself onto Beckett’s shoulders and wrestles to distract him. Joe follows, leaving the net gun behind and going in to flank Andy, but is stopped when Andy is thrown back, toppling onto Patrick’s heaving body. Andy doesn’t waste any time because, shit. This is it.

“Joe, the window!”

It takes a split second before Joe is sprinting for the barred window with the net gun. William is still dead-set with the stake in his hands to bother paying any attention. He’s running on tunnel vision now with the seething hatred. And just like that, when Joe rips the curtains off of the wall and smashes the painted glass, early morning sun floods the room in a bleached, overexposed brightness that nearly blinds all of them.

Pete and Brendon recoil at the same moment, hissing and screaming, scrambling for a shadowed corner, anything to get away from the light that was beginning to char them. William shielded his eyes in the light, but goes straight for Pete again.

In one last attempt, “Paralian! Please, Brendon!”

“Shut up!” William snarls, wiping the blood from his mouth and ignoring the way his skin begins to peel and smolder in the light.

Out of nowhere, Brendon is on William, snarling, hissing, growling, so animal that Andy and Joe barely recognize him at all. His fangs are bared in his ministrations of getting a good grip on Beckett, and without much effort, throws himself through the window, breaking the bars and taking William with him, a hand buried deep into his shoulder, bleeding profusely through the fabric.

Hisses and screams are heard in the open industrial yard, and one last growl, shrill and guttural, dying out into the harsh November wind.

Joe and Andy make an effort to tear the sheets off of the bed and throw them over Pete who lies limp and motionless on the floor with a vacant stare. There’s a crack at the window. Joe turns his head toward Brendon’s burning silhouette climbing back through, tripping and collapsing with a low growl like a wounded animal, but struggles to push himself back up. At this sight, Andy is quick to motion Joe over. They lift the solid mass of the bed and push it to block the window completely, and the room is enveloped in darkness once again.

Smoke rises off of Brendon’s burned arms and shoulders, with the most severe blisters, his shirt has been singed through to reveal raw, bleeding skin. The hair on his neck has been scorched off in patches, and the blistered skin stops around his eyebrows and ears, framing his face.  
“H-he’s…he’s gone. There’s n-nothing left.” Brendon winces as he gets up, swatting Andy away as he stumbles upright. The trails of blood from his nose and ears have dried and flake off in some places, but he ignores it and makes a beeline for Pete. When he crouches beside him and gingerly removes the sheet, Pete isn’t as bad as Brendon, but he’s entirely comatose. His mind is gone, and Brendon feels nothing.

He’s holding an empty vessel. Brendon feels like dying.

"Pete." He doesn’t look up to meet Brendon’s eyes on his own, and Brendon needs to take his face in his hands and meet his gaze. Pete only holds it for a second before his eyes fall back vacantly to the floor. Brendon makes a small whine in the throat.

They’ve lost Patrick already. They can’t lose Pete. Two is too much.

“Pete, man, please, look at me.” Brendon’s voice will break any second along with his fluid composure. “C’mon. I’m here, feel me.” He puts his hand to Pete’s chest at the bruise where the stake was poised to pierce, his touch cold, trembling. Brendon searches his face.

It’s faint; Pete’s voice is nothing but a whisper. “You’re not real.”

“I am. Pete, look at me.” Pete doesn’t respond. His eyes may shift, but they don’t notice Brendon at all.

“I'm so tired. He never came back.”

"I'm here. I'm real, Pete, please. Don't give up. Don't. It's over. Don't give up like I did."

Brendon stares for a long while. As the blisters around his face begin to heal slowly, he’s whimpering. He laces his long fingers with Pete’s and grips firmly, nearly digging his nails into Pete’s hand. There is no pulse, no energy and no life that Brendon can sense at all. He sees the deep wound in Pete’s shoulder where the fabric had been ripped away from the shirt. He doesn’t like how he can’t feel his nerves bunching up in the same place on his skin, and feel Pete’s pain.

Brendon moves to bite into his wrist, taking a mouthful, and with a longing look to Pete’s empty eyes, he presses his mouth to the wound and licks gingerly over the spot, feeling it knit back together. He’s being gentle and loving, which is all he can do, the pads of his fingertips stroking soft patterns at the small hairs on Pete's neck. He wants to leave Pete in one, perfect piece if Brendon’s life will no longer have him in it. In the background, he can hear Joe gasp at the intimacy of the scene. They didn’t realize until now how intertwined, how emotionally attuned to each other they were.

Pete leans into Brendon arms with a sigh, his cheek starting to brush against Brendon’s hair. Brendon continues to mouth the spot until he can only feel skin beneath his tongue, and when he moves to take another bite and move to Pete’s neck, Pete’s hand fists the denim of Brendon’s singed jeans.  
“Only he does that for me.” Pete whispers, clutching the fabric harder and biting his lip. Brendon freezes mid-motion and turns to face him.

Pete is looking at him, trying to register. The pulse slowly beats in the back of Brendon’s mind, growing louder and louder, more intense with every quick flit of Pete’s eyes on him. There’s a hint of a smile, trying to form on both of their faces, and when Pete reaches up to touch at one of the burns on Brendon’s shoulder blades, Brendon hisses and recoils away from his fingers.

Pete suddenly beams at him with distressed relief.  
"Brendon. You’re here…” he states, just to be sure it’s known for the both of them. They’re sharing the same space, nothing matters, and nothing exists anymore. It’s all relative compared to Brendon who is holding him, supporting him, with him.

“Of course I'm here. You gave me my life back.” Brendon envelops him in the tightest hug he can manage through the pain of the burns. He’s stroking Pete’s neck soothingly, and Pete’s fists dig into his back, but he doesn’t care.

He’s been saved.

Fin.


	21. Chapter 21

Pete stares for a long moment at the headstone. He thinks, if he wished hard enough, that Patrick would be waiting in his study for them to get back, like nothing ever happened. Brendon would be sleeping soundly without having to fare for Pete’s nightmares. Andy would still be in college working toward his master’s degree, and Joe would be running his guitar shop like he wanted. Pete, well…Pete wouldn’t be this way. He’d be warm, comforting. Not this.

They’d burned what remains they’d found of Beckett that evening. Brendon’s skin still fought to heal, and Pete followed them out the front door, limping with the lighter and can of kerosene. He felt nothing, not even Brendon pulling at his mind as they watched the flames scorch the clothes and rise higher, hotter, and brighter into the air. Brendon had retreated early on while Pete stayed behind until dawn, burning a hole in the ashes with his eyes.

The next day, they buried Patrick by the lake in a private plot. Brendon insisted that he do it out of respect, but Pete could feel the intense guilt that prickled around him like needles. They now watch the newly dug grave in silence. Pete doesn’t take his eyes off of the epitaph written crudely into the stone with his fingernail, and the broken pair of glasses sitting on the mound of dirt.

He can feel Brendon before he can hear him through the snow. Pete stands there in his shirt, maroon, that smells like both of them intertwined, blood up and down his arms and dripping from his chin. Pete’s eyes are black from the adrenaline, and he’s not ashamed to hide it anymore. Brendon gently takes Pete’s hand and wipes away the blood from his palm.

Carden didn’t stand a chance.

“Where will we go?” Pete asked absently. His eyes slip shut when Brendon begins drawing patterns along the creases, and the wind begins to pick up again.

“To the sea. Paralians, remember?” Pete nods. He can’t forget a lifeline like that. “Tell me, are satisfied now that they’re gone, at your hands?” Brendon’s tone is sharp, but curious all the same.

“I don’t feel anything.” Pete responds. He’s been numb since Chislett burst into ashes against the wall, the last of them.

“Liar.” Brendon snaps. There’s an accent beneath it that doesn’t belong to him. Pete looks at him suddenly with searching eyes, but Brendon’s already caught his fault. He sucks in a breath and hisses, clutching the side of his head where the pain throbs. A small trail of blood drips from his nose, but he wipes it away with the back of his hand before Pete can say anything. “I’m sorry. It comes and goes.” he explains.

Traces of him still linger. The pull had been strong on delicate, little Brendon, but the years have aged him enough. He’ll keep himself in control, and if that fails, Pete will be there.

Brendon tugs on the sleeve of his coat to hide the blood that Pete’s already seen.

“Is everything gone? Have Andy and Joe moved on?” Pete asks.

“Yes. I saw them off, sold the furniture.” Brendon assures. Joe and Andy gave him weary looks because they knew, just knew, Brendon will never be the same. He’s tainted and damaged, not entirely stable. But this is the end. They’re at peace. There is a balance.

“We’re coming back.” Pete says it like a promise. “Every year, same time, same place.”

The wind is gusting faster now, making their hair blow wildly around their faces. Brendon laces their fingers and makes a pull at Pete’s hands for him to follow. “I go where you go.”


End file.
